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2 





INTRODUCTION TO KIPLING^S 
INDIAN TALES 


^tpLAIN TALES FROM THE HILLS” 
^ and ‘‘The Courting of Dinah Shadd” 
— among the “Other Stories” being “Without 
Benefit of Clergy” — reached America early in 
the summer of 1890. I had never before read 
a line by Mr. Kipling or even heard his name, 
and I remember as if it were yesterday how 
those tales, some plain, others not so plain, 
brought the heat and dust and glare of India 
into the cool down-east summer. If the won- 
der had stopped with this attack on our geog- 
raphy and climate, it would still have been a 
wonder; but for very many Americans, and 
doubtless also for very many English people, 
the miracle was greater still. It was an attack 
on the geography of our minds and imagina* 
tions. During the rest of that summer Scott, 
Thackeray, Balzac, Tolstoi, and the rest, disap- 
peared from view, or at least into the middle 
distance. Kipling, alone of all the writers of 
fiction, occupied the foreground. What none 
had done before, he had suddenly achieved. 
He had transmuted the Indian Empire into 


INTRODUCTION 



literature. Whether true or false — and there 
are those who deny the truth of Mr. Kipling’s 
version — his India became and has remained 
the only India of hundreds of thousands of 
English-speaking readers. 

Absolutely new then, relatively new now, 
Mr. Kipling imposes his exotic empire on ever 
arriving companies of subjects. He catches 
them young. And, to adapt Dr. Johnson’s 
wisdom concerning Scotchmen, much may be 
made of a reader if he be caught young. 

So writes Charles T. Copeland, the well- 
known literary authority of Harvard Univer- 
sity to the publishers, on being informed of 
their plans for this edition. 

In stating that Kipling transmitted the 
Indian Empire into literature Mr. Copeland 
succinctly proclaimed the universally accepted 
judgment of readers and critics who have fa- 
miliarized themselves with the ‘Tndian 
Tales.” 

The pervading atmosphere of oriental ro- 
mance in these stories, which came with so 
deep an impression of freshness and realism 
to the Cambridge critic, would, with an equal 
sense of wonder, have struck the staid govern- 
ors of the East India Company had they been 
read in Leaden Hall Street, whence for more 

II 


INTRODUCTION 


than a hundred years these merchant princes 
governed the politics and trade of India. And 
how their faithful clerk, Charles Lamb, who 
from 1792 to 1825 pored over the count- 
less invoices of spices, pepper, and dye 
stuffs, which freighted the returning ships of 
the great Company, would have rubbed his 
eyes as Kipling’s India unveiled itself to him. 
The author of the ‘‘Essays of Elia,” whose 
magnus opus, as he always said, consisted of 
the more than one hundred volumes of letter 
copy books containing his correspondence 
with India, would have brewed an even 
stronger punch than was his wont and “God 
blessed his soul” with more than usual fervor 
as he grasped the viewpoint from which Kip- 
ling’s wonderful imagination had looked out 
and visualized the beauty, the barbaric splen- 
dor, the subtle, thoughtful philosophy and the 
never-dying romance of India which for gen- 
erations had dumbly passed in review before 
the denizens of India House as endless col- 
umns of prosaic figures. 

The new India of romance, as we know it 
today was not to be unveiled by adventurous 
discoverers, merchant princes, triumphant sol- 
diers, nor even by such men of letters as Lamb 
or Mackintosh. Like the fairy princess, she 


III 


INTPO.JUCTION 


was to slumber in the imagination of the Eng- 
lish-speaking world until her own prince 
should with his genius touch her lips and free 
the voice that ever since has thrilled and en- 
chanted the hearts of the listener with the 
golden song and story of India. 

Long she waited, but when at last Rudyard 
Kipling stood before her, those who had best 
fathomed her heart knew that her prince had 
come. 

NORTON. 


With a communication to the publishers by 

CHARLES T. COPELAND, 

of Harvard University. 


Copyright, 1909 
Edinburgh Society 




CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Incarnation of Krishna Mul- 

VANEY I 

The Three Musketeers 49 

The Courting of Dinah Shadd 61 

On Greenhow Hill 105 

The Taking of Lungtungpen 141 

The Daughter of the Regiment .... 153 
The Madness of Private Ortheris . . 165 

The God from the Machine 181 

Private Learoyd's Story 199 

The Solid Muldoon 215 

With the Main Guard 233 

Black Jack 261 

The Big Drunk Draf" 295 

L’Envoi 313 


SOLDJERS THREE 


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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


/ 

Mulvaney Frontispiece 

Photogravure by John Andrew & Son after 
original by Reginald Bolles 

“See that Beggar? . . . Got ... 138 

Mezzogravure by John Andrew & Son after 
original by Reginald Bolles 

“But Through ut all . . . went 

OuLD PuMMELOE^^ l6l ^ 

Mezzogravure by John Andrew & Son after 
original by Reginald Bolles 

“Peg Barney was Singin^ ut^^ 305 ^ 

Mezzogravure by John Andrew & Son after 
original by Reginald Bolles 


SOLDIERS THREE 


/ 


# 



SOLDIERS THREE 


\ 


THE INCARNATION OF KRISHNA 
MULVANEY 

Wohl auf, my bully cavaliers. 

We ride to church to-day, 

The man that hasn’t got a horse 
Must steal one straight away. 


Be reverent, men, remember 
This is a Gottes haus. 

Du, Conrad, cut along der aisle 
And schenck der whisky aus. 

Han’s Breitmann’s Ride to Church, 

NCE Upon a time, very far from Eng- 
land, there lived three men who loved 
each other so greatly that neither man nor 
woman could come between them. They 
were in no sense refined, nor to be admitted to 
the outer-door mats of decent folk, because 
they happened to be private soldiers in Her 
Majesty’s Army; and private soldiers of our 
service have small time for self-culture. 
Their duty is to keep themselves and their 
I 


2 


THE INCARNATION OF 


accoutrements specklessly clean, to refrain 
from getting drunk more often than is neces- 
sary, to obey their superiors, and to pray for 
a war. All these things my friends accom- 
plished; and of their own motion threw in 
some fighting-work for which the Army 
Regulations did not call. Their fate sent 
them to serve in India, which is not a golden 
country, though poets have sung otherwise. 
There men die with great swiftness, and those 
who live suffer many and curious things. I 
do not think that my friends concerned them- 
selves much with the social or political 
aspects of the East. They attended a not 
unimportant war on the northern frontier, 
another one on our western boundary, and 
a third in Upper Burma. Then their regi- 
ment sat still to recruit, and the boundless 
monotony of cantonment life was their por- 
tion. They were drilled morning and even- 
ing on the same dusty parade-ground. They 
wandered up and down the same stretch of 
dusty white road, attended the same church 
and the same grog-shop, and slept in the 
same lime-washed barn of a barrack for two 
long years. There was Mulvaney, the father 
in the craft, who had served with various 
regiments from Bermuda to Halifax, old in 


KRISHNA MUKVANEY 


3 


war, scarred, reckless, resourceful, and in his 
pious hours an unequalled soldier. To him 
turned for help and comfort six and a half 
feet of slow-moving, heavy-footed York- 
shiremen, born on the wolds, bred in the dales, 
and educated chiefly among the carriers’ carts 
at the back of York railway station. His 
name was Learoyd, and his chief virtue an 
unmitigated patience which helped him to 
win fights. How Ortheris, a fox-terrier or 
a Cockney, ever came to be one of the trio, 
is a mystery which even to-day I cannot ex- 
plain. ‘‘There was always three av us,” 
Mulvaney used to say. “An’ by the grace 
av God, so long as our service last, three av 
us they’ll always be. ’Tis better so.” 

They desired no companionship beyond 
their own, and it was evil for any man of 
the regiment who attempted dispute with 
them. Physical argument was out of the 
question as regarded Mulvaney and the York- 
shireman; and assault on Ortheris meant a 
combined attack from these twain — a business 
which no five men were anxious to have on 
their hands. Therefore they flourished, 
sharing their drinks, their tobacco, and their 
money; good luck and evil; battle and the 
chances of death, life and the chances of hap- 


4 


THE INCARNATION OF 


piness from Calicut in southern, to Peshawur 
in northern India. 

Through no merit of my own it was my 
good fortune to be in a measure admitted to 
their friendship — frankly by Mulvaney from 
the beginning, sullenly and with reluctance 
by Learoyd, and suspiciously by Ortheris, 
who held to it that no man not in the army 
could fraternize with a red-coat. ‘Xike to 
like,” said he. “Fm a bloomin’ sodger — he’s 
a bloomin’ civilian. ’Taint natural — that’s 
■all.” 

But that was not all. They thawed pro- 
gressively, and in the thawing told me more 
of their lives and adventures than I am ever 
likely to write. 

Omitting all else, this tale begins with the 
Lamentable Thirst that was at the beginning 
of First Causes. Never was such a thirst — 
Mulvaney told me so. They kicked against 
their compulsory virtue, but the attempt was 
only successful in the case of Ortheris. He, 
whose talents were many, went forth into 
the highways and stole a dog from a ''civil- 
ian” — videlicet, some one, he knew not who, 
not in the Army. Now that civilian was but 
newly connected by marriage with the colonel 
of the regiment, and outcry was made from 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


quarters least anticipated by Ortheris, and, in 
the end, he was forced, lest a worse thing 
should happen, to dispose at ridiculously un- 
remunerative rates of as promising a small 
terrier as ever graced one end of a leading 
string. The purchase-money was barely 
sufficient for one small outbreak which led 
him to the guard-room. He escaped, how- 
ever, with nothing worse than a severe repri- 
mand, and a few hours of punishment drill. 
Not for nothing had he acquired the reputa- 
tion of being “the best soldier of his inches” 
in the regiment. Mulvaney had taught per- 
sonal cleanliness and efficiency as the first 
articles of his companion’s creed. “A 
dhirty man,” he was used to say, in the speech 
of his kind, “goes to Clink for a weakness in 
the knees, an’ is coort-martialled for a pair 
av socks missin’; but a clane man, such as is 
an ornament to his service — a man whose but- 
tons are gold, whose coat is wax upon him, 
an’ whose ’coutrements are widout a speck — 
that man may, spakin’ in reason, do fwhat he 
likes an’ dhrink from day to divil. That’s 
the pride av bein’ dacint.” 

We sat together, upon a day, in the shade 
of a ravine far from the barracks, where a 
water-course used to run in rainy weather. 


6 


THE INCARNATION OF 


Behind us was the scrub jungle, in which 
jackals, peacocks, the grey wolves of the 
Northwestern Provinces, and occasionally a 
tiger estrayed from Central India, were sup- 
posed to dwell. In front lay the cantonment, 
glaring white under a glaring sun; and on 
either side ran the broad road that led to 
Delhi. 

It was the scrub that suggested to my mind 
the wisdom of Mulvaney taking a day’s leave 
and going upon a shooting-tour. The pea- 
cock is a holy bird throughout India, and he 
who slays one is in danger of being mobbed 
by the nearest villagers; but on the last occa- 
sion that Mulvaney had gone forth, he had 
contrived, without in the least offending local 
religious susceptibilities, to return with six 
beautiful peacock skins which he sold to 
profit. It seemed just possible then — 

“But fwhat manner av use is ut to me goin’ 
out widout a dhrink? The ground’s pow- 
dher-dhry underfoot, an’ ut gets unto the 
throat fit to kill,” wailed Mulvaney, looking 
at me reproachfully. “An’ a peacock is not 
a bird you can catch the tail av onless ye run. 
Can a man run on wather — an’ jungle- 
wather too?” 

Ortheris had considered the question in all 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


7 

its bearings. He spoke, chewing his pipe- 
stem meditatively the while: 

“ Go forth, return in glory. 

To Clusium’s royal ’ome: 

An’ round these bloomin’ temples ’ang 
The bloomin’ shields o’ Rome. 

You better go. You ain’t like to shoot your- 
self — not while there’s a chanst of liquor. Me 
an’ Learoyd ’ll stay at ’ome an’ keep shop — 
’case of anythin’ turnin’ up. But you go out 
with a gas-pipe gun an’ ketch the little pea- 
cockses or somethin’. You kin get one day’s 
leave easy as winkin’. Go along an’ get it, 
an’ get peacockses or somethin’.” 

‘^Jock,”said Mulvaney, turning to Learoyd, 
who was half asleep under the shadow of the 
bank. He roused slowly. 

“Sitha, Mulvaaney, go,” said he. 

And Mulvaney went ; cursing his allies with 
Irish fluency and barrack-room point. 

‘‘Take note,” said he, when he had won his 
holiday, and appeared dressed in his roughest 
clothes with the only other regimental fowl- 
ing piece in his hand. “Take note, Jock, an’ 
you Orth’ris, I am goin’ in the face av my 
own will — all for to please you. I misdoubt 
anythin’ will come av permiscuous huntin’ 


8 


THE INCARNATION OE 


afther peacockses in a desolit Ian* ; an* I know 
that I will lie down an* die wid thirrst. Me 
catch peacockses for you, ye lazy scutts — an* 
be sacrificed by the peasanthry — Ugh!” 

He waved a hugh paw and went away. 

At twilight, long before the appointed hour, 
he returned empty-handed, much begrimed 
with dirt. 

“Peacockses?** queried Ortheris from the 
safe rest of a barrack-room table whereon he 
was smoking cross-legged, Learoyd fast 
asleep on a bench. 

“Jock,** said Mulvaney, without answering, 
as he stirred up the sleeper. “Jock, can ye 
fight? Will ye fight?” 

Very slowly the meaning of the words com- 
municated itself to the half-roused man. He 
understood — and again — what might these 
things mean? Mulvaney was shaking him 
savagely. Meantime the men in the room 
howled with delight. There was war in the 
confederacy at last — war and the breaking of 
bonds. 

Barrack room etiquette is stringent. On 
the direct challenge must follow the direct 
reply. This is more binding than the ties 
of tried friendship. Once again Mulvaney 
repeated the question. Learoyd answered 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


9 


by the only means in his power, and so swiftly 
that the Irishman had barely time to avoid 
the blow. The laughter around increased. 
Learoyd looked bewilderedly at his friend — 
himself as greatly bewildered. Ortheris 
dropped from the table because his world was 
falling. 

“Come outside,” said Mulvaney, and as 
the occupants of the barrack-room prepared 
joyously to follow, he turned and said furi- 
ously, “There will be no fight this night — 
onless any wan av you is wishful to assist. 
The man that does, follows on.” 

No man moved. The three passed out into 
the moonlight, Learoyd fumbling with the 
buttons of his coat. The parade-ground was 
deserted except for the scurrying jackals. 
Mulvaney’s impetuous rush carried his com- 
panions far into the open ere Learoyd at- 
tempted to turn round and continue the dis- 
cussion. 

“Be still now. ’Twas my fault for be- 
ginning things in the middle av an end, Jock. 
I should ha’ comminst wid an explanation; 
but Jock, dear, on your sowl are ye fit, think 
you, for the finest fight that iver was — betther 
than fightin’ me? Considher before ye an- 
swer.” 


10 


THE INCARNATION OF 


More than ever puzzled, Learoyd turned 
round two or three times, felt an arm, kicked 
tentatively, and answered, '^Ah’m fit” He 
was accustomed to fight blindly at the bidding 
of the superior mind. 

They sat them down, the men looking on 
from afar, and Mulvaney untangled himself 
in mighty words. 

"‘Followin’ your fools’ scheme I wint out 
into the thrackless desert beyond the barricks. 
An’ there I met a pious Hindu dhriving a 
bullock-kyart. I tuk it for granted he wud 
be delighted for to convoy me a piece, an’ I 
jumped in” — 

“You long, lazy, black-haired swine,” 
drawled Ortheris, who would have done the 
same thing under similar circumstances. 

“ ’Twas the height av policy. That naygur- 
man dhruv miles an’ miles — as far as the new 
railway line they’re buildin’ now back av the 
Tavi river. " ’Tis a kyart for dhirt only,’ 
says he now an’ again timoreously, to get 
me out av ut. "Dhirt I am,’ sez I, "an’ the 
dhryest that you iver kyarted. Dhrive on, me 
son, an’ glory be wid you.’ At that I wint 
to slape, an’ took no heed till he pulled up 
on the embankmint av the line where the 
coolies were pilin’ mud. There was a mat- 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


II 


ther av two thousand coolies on that line — 
you remimber that. Prisintly a bell rang, 
an’ they throops off to a big pay-shed. 
‘Where’s the white man in charge?’ sez I 
to my kyart-dhriver. ‘In the shed,’ sez he, 
‘engaged on a riffle.’ — ‘A fwhatP’ sez I. 
‘Riffle,’ sez he. ‘You take ticket. He take 
money. You get nothin’.’ — ‘Oho!’ sez I, 
‘that’s fwhat the shuperior an’ cultivated man 
calls a raffle, me misbeguided child av dark- 
ness an’ sin. Lead on to that raffle, though 
fwhat the mischief ’tis doin’ so far away 
from uts home — which is the charity-bazaar 
at Christmas, an’ the colonel’s wife grinnin’ 
behind the tea-table — is more than I know.’ 
Wid that I wint to the shed an’ found ’twas 
pay-day among the coolies. Their wages was 
on a table forninst a big, fine, red buck av 
a man — sivun fut high, four fut wide, an’ 
three fut thick, wid a fist on him like a corn- 
sack. He was payin’ the coolies fair an’ easy, 
but he wud ask each man if he wud raffle 
that month, an’ each man sez, ‘Yes,’ av 
course. Thin he wud deduct from their 
wages accordin’. Whin all was paid, he filled 
an ould cigar-box full av gun-wads an’ scat- 
thered ut among the coolies. They did not 
take much joy av that performince, an’ small 


12 


THE INCARNATION OF 


wondher. A man close to me picks up a black 
gun-wad an’ sings out, T have ut.’ — ‘Good 
may ut do you,’ sez 1. The coolie wint for- 
ward to this big, fine, red man, who threw 
a cloth off av the most sumpshus, jooled, 
enamelled an’ variously bedivilled sedan-chair 
I iver saw.” 

“Sedan-chair! Put your ’ead in a bag. 
That was a palanquin. Don’t yer know a 
palanquin when you see it?” said Ortheris 
with great scorn. 

“I chuse to call ut sedan chair, an’ chair 
ut shall be, little man,” continued the Irish- 
man. “ ’Twas a most amazin’ chair — all 
lined wid pink silk an’ fitted wid red silk 
curtains. ‘Here ut is,’ sez the red man. 
‘Here ut is,’ sez the coolie; then he grinned 
weakly-ways. Is ut any use to you?’ sex the 
red man. ‘No,’ sez the coolie ; ‘I’d like to make 
a prisint av ut to you.’ — ‘I am graciously 
pleased to accept that same,’ sez the red man; 
an’ at that all the coolies cried aloud in fwhat 
was mint for cheerful notes, an’ wint back 
to their diggin’, lavin’ me alone in the shed. 
The red man saw me, an’ his face grew blue 
on his big, fat neck. ‘Fwhat d’you want 
here?’ sez he. ‘Standin’-room an’ no more,’ 
sez I, ‘onless it may be fwhat ye niver had, 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


13 


an' that's manners, ye rafflin' ruffian,' for I 
was not goin' to have the Service throd upon. 
‘Out of this,' sez he. ‘I’m in charge av this 
section av construction.' — ‘I’m in charge av 
mesilf,' sez I, ‘an’ it’s like I will stay a while. 
D’ye raffle much in these parts?’' — ‘Fwhat’s 
that to you?’ sez he. ‘Nothin’,' sez I, ‘but a 
great dale to you, for begad I’m thinkin’ you 
get the full half av your revenue from that 
sedan-chair. Is ut always raffled so ?’ I sez, 
an’ wid that I wint to a coolie to ask ques- 
tions. Bhoys, that man’s name is Dearsley, 
an’ he’s ben rafflin' that ould sedan-chair 
monthly this matther av nine months. Ivry 
coolie on the section takes a ticket — or he 
gives ’em the go — wanst a month on pay- 
day. Ivry coolie that wins ut gives ut back 
to him, for 'tis too big to carry away, an’ 
he’d sack the man that thried to sell ut. That 
Dearsley has been makin’ the rowlin' wealth 
av Roshus by nefarious rafflin'. Think av 
the burning shame to the sufferin’ coolie-man 
that the army in Injia are bound to protect 
an' nourish in their bosoms! Two thousand 
coolies defrauded wanst a month!” 

“Dom t' coolies. Has't gotten t' cheer, 
man?” said Learoyd. 

“Mould on. Havin’ onearthed this amazin’ 


14 


THE INCARNATION OF 


an^ stupenjus fraud committed by the man 
Dearsley, I hild a council av war; he thryin’ 
all the time to sejuce me into a fight wid op- 
probrious language. That sedan-chair niver 
belonged by right to any foreman av coolies. 
’Tis a king’s chair or a quane’s. There’s 
gold on ut an’ silk an’ all manner av trapese- 
mints. Bhoys, ’tis not for me to countenance 
any sort av wrong-doin’ — me bein’ the ould 
man — but — anyway he has had ut nine 
months, an’ he dare not make throuble av ut 
was taken from him. Five miles away, or 
ut may be six” — 

There was a long pause and the jackals 
howled merrily. Learoyd bared one arm, and 
contemplated it in the moonlight. Then he 
nodded partly to himself and partly to his 
friends. Ortheris wriggled with suppressed 
emotion. 

‘T thought ye wud see the reasonableness 
av ut,” said Mulvaney. 'T make bould to say 
as much to the man before. He was for a 
direct front attack— fut, horse, an’ guns — an’ 
all for nothin’, seein’ that I had no thrans- 
port to convey the machine away. T will not 
argue wid you,’ sez I, ‘this day, but subse- 
quintly, Mister Dearsley, me rafflin’ jool, we 
talk ut out lengthways. ’Tis no good policy 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


15 


to swindle the naygur av his hard-earned 
emolumints, an’ by presint informashin’ ’ — 
’twas the kyart man that tould me — ^ye’ve 
been perpethrating that same for nine months. 
But Fm a just man,’ sez I, ^an’ overlookin’ 
the presumpshin that yondher settee wid the 
gilt top was not come by honust’ — at that he 
turned sky-green, so I knew things was more 
thrue than tellable — ‘not come by honust. I’m 
willin’ to compound the felony for this 
month’s winnin’s.’ ” 

“Ah! Ho!” from Learoyd and Ortheris. 

“That man Dearsley’s rushin’ on his fate,” 
continued Mulvaney, solemnly wagging his 
head. “All Hell had no name bad enough 
for me that tide. Faith, he called me a rob- 
ber! Me! that was savin’ him from contin- 
uin’ in his evil ways widout a remonstrince — 
an’ to a man av conscience a remonstrince 
may change the chune av his life. ‘ ’Tis not 
for me to argue,’ sez I, ‘fwhatever ye are, 
Mister Dearsley, but, by my hand, I’ll take 
away the temptation for you that lies in that 
sedan-chair.’ — ‘You will have to fight me for 
ut,’ sez he, ‘for well I know you will never 
dare make report to any one.’ — ‘Fight I will,* 
sez I, ‘but not this day, for I’m rejuced for 
want av nourishment.’ — ‘Ye’re an ould bould 


i6 


THE INCARNATION OF 


hand/ sez he, sizin’ me up an’ down; ‘an’ a 
jool av a fight we will have. Eat now an’ 
dhrink, an’ go your way.’ Wid that he gave 
me some hump an’ whisky — good whisky — 
an’ we talked av this an’ that the while. Tt 
goes hard on me now,’ sez I, wipin’ my 
mouth, ‘to confiscate that piece av furniture, 
but justice is justice.’' — ‘Ye’ve not got ut yet,’ 
sez he ; ‘there’s the fight between.’ — ‘There is,’ 
sez I, ‘an’ a good fight. Ye shall have the 
pick av the best quality in my rigimint for the 
dinner you have given this day.’ Thin I came 
hot-foot to you two. Hould your tongue, the 
both. ’Tis this way. To-morrow we three 
will go there an’ he shall have his pick betune 
me an’ Jock. Jock’s a deceivin’ fighter, for 
he is all fat to the eye, an’ he moves slow. 
Now I’m all beef to the look, an’ I move 
quick. By my reckonin’ the Dearsley man 
won’t take me; so me an’ Orth’ris ’ll see fair 
play. Jock, I tell you, ’twill be big fightin’ — 
whipped, wid the cream above the jam. 
Afther the business ’twill take a good three 
av us — Jock’ll be very hurt — to haul away 
that sedan-chair.” 

“Palanquin.” This from Ortheris. 

“Fwhatever ut is, we must have ut. ’Tis 
the only sellin’ piece av property widin reach 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


17 


that we can get so cheap. An^ fwhat’s a fight 
afther all? He has robbed the naygur-man, 
dishonust. We rob him honust for the sake 
av the whisky he gave me.’^ 

“But wot’ll we do with the bloomin’ arti- 
cle when we’ve got it? Them palanquins are 
as big as ’ouses, an’ uncommon ’ard to sell, 
as McCleary said when ye stole the sentry- 
box from the Curragh.” 

“Who’s goin’ to do t’ fightin’?” said Lear- 
oyd, and Ortheris subsided. The three re- 
turned to barracks without a word. Mul- 
vaney’s last argument clinched the matter. 
This palanquin was property, vendible, and 
to be attained in the simplest and least embar- 
rassing fashion. It would eventually become 
beer. Great was Mulvaney. 

Next afternoon a procession of three 
formed itself and disappeared into the scrub 
in the direction of the new railway line. Lear- 
oyd alone was without care, for Mulvaney 
dived darkly into the future, and little Or- 
theris feared the unknown. What befell at 
that interview in the lonely payshed by the 
side of the half-built embankment, only a few 
hundred coolies know, and their tale is a con- 
fusing one, running thus — 

“We were at work. Three men in red 


i8 


THE INCARNATION OF 


coats came. They saw the Sahib — Dearsley 
Sahib. They made oration; and noticeably 
the small man among the red-coats. Dears- 
ley Sahib also made oration, and used many 
very strong words. Upon this talk they de- 
parted together to an open space, and there 
the fat man in the red coat fought with 
Dearsley Sahib after the custom of white 
men — with his hands, making no noise, and 
never at all pulling Dearsley Sahib’s hair. 
Such of us as were not afraid beheld these 
things for just so long a time as a man needs 
to cook the midday meal. The small man in 
the red coat had possessed himself of Dears- 
ley Sahib’s watch. No, he did not steal that 
watch. He held it in his hand, and at cer- 
tain seasons made outcry, and the twain 
ceased their combat, which was like the com- 
bat of young bulls in spring. Both men were 
soon all red, but Dearsley Sahib was much 
more red than the other. Seeing this, and fear- 
ing for his life — because we greatly loved 
him — some fifty of us made shift to rush 
upon the red-coats. But a certain man — very 
black as to the hair, and in no way to be con- 
fused with the small man, or the fat man who 
fought — that man, we affirm, ran upon us, 
and of us he embraced some ten or fifty in 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


19 


both arms, and beat our heads together, so 
that our livers turned to water, and we ran 
away. It is not good to interfere in the fight- 
ings of white men. After that Dearsley Sa- 
hib fell and did not rise, these men jumped 
upon his stomach and despoiled him of all 
his money, and attempted to fire the pay-shed, 
and departed. Is it true that Dearsley Sahib 
makes no complaint of these latter things 
having been done? We were senseless with 
fear, and do not at all remember. There was 
no palanquin near the pay-shed. What do we 
know about palanquins ? Is it true that 
Dearsley Sahib does not return to this place, 
on account of his sickness, for ten days? 
This is the fault of those bad men in the red 
coats, who should be severely punished; for 
Dearsley Sahib is both our father and 
mother, and we love him much. Yet, if 
Dearsley Sahib does not return to this place 
at all, we will speak the truth. There was a 
palanquin, for the up-keep of which we were 
forced to pay nine-tenths of our monthly 
wage. On such mulctings Dearsley Sahib al- 
lowed us to make obeisance to him before the 
palanquin. What could we do? We were 
poor men. He took a full half of our wages. 
VVillJdie* Government repay us those moneys? 


20 


THE INCARNATION OF 


Those three men in red coats bore the palan- 
quin upon their shoulders and departed. All 
the money that Dearsley Sahib had taken 
from us was in the cushions of that palan- 
quin. Therefore they stole. Thousands of 
rupees were there — all our money. It was 
our bank-box, to fill which we cheerfully 
contributed to Dearsley Sahib three-sevenths 
of our monthly wage. Why does the white 
man look upon us with the eye of disfavor? 
Before God, there was a palanquin, aiM now 
there is no palanquin; and if they send the 
police here to make inquisition, we can only 
say that there never has been any palanquin. 
Why should a palanquin be near these works ? 
We are poor men, and we know nothing.” 

Such is the simplest version of the simplest 
story connected with the descent upon Dears- 
ley. From the lips of the coolies I received 
it. Dearsley himself was in no condition to 
say anything, and Mulvaney preserved a mas- 
sive silence, broken only by the occasional 
licking of the lips. He had seen a fight so 
gorgeous that even his power of speech was 
taken from him. I respected that reserve 
until, three days after the affair, I discovered 
in a disused stable in my quarters a palan- 
quin of unchastened splendor — evidently in 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


21 


past days the litter of a queen. The pole 
whereby it swung between the shoulders of 
the bearers was rich with the painted papier- 
mache of Cashmere. The shoulder-pads 
were of yellow silk. The panels of the litter 
itself were ablaze with the loves of all the gods 
and goddesses of the Hindu Pantheon — lac- 
quer on cedar. The cedar sliding doors were 
fitted with hasps of translucent Jaipur enamel 
and ran in grooves shod with silver. The cush- 
ions were of brocaded Delhi silk, and the cur- 
tains which once hid any glimpse of the 
beauty of the king’s palace were stiff with 
gold. Closer investigation showed that the 
entire fabric was everywhere rubbed and dis- 
colored by time and wear; but even thus it 
was sufficiently gorgeous to- deserve housing 
on the threshold of a royal zenana. I found 
no fault with it, except that it was in my 
stable. Then, trying to lift it by the silver- 
shod shoulder pole, I laughed. The road 
from Dearsley pay-shed to the cantonment 
was a narrow and uneven one, and, traversed 
by three very inexperienced palanquin-bear- 
ers, one of whom was sorely battered about 
the head, must have been a path of torment. 
Still I did not quite recognize the right of 
the three musketeers to turn me into a 
‘‘fence” for stolen property. 


22 


THE INCARNATION OF 


'Tm askin’ you to warehouse ut,” said 
Mulvaney when he was brought to consider 
the question. ^‘There’s no steal in ut. Dearsley 
tould us we cud have ut if we fought. Jock 
fought — an’, oh, sorr, when the throuble was 
at uts finest an’ Jock was bleedin’ like a stuck 
pig, an’ little Orth’ris was shquealin’ on one 
leg chewin’ big bites out av Dearsley’s watch, 
I ud ha’ gif^n my place at the fight to have 
had you see wan round. He tuk Jock, as I 
suspicioned he would, an’ Jock was deceptive. 
Nine roun’s they were even matched, an’ at the 
tenth — About that palanquin now. There’s 
not the least throuble in the world, or we wud 
not ha’ brought ut here. You will ondher- 
stand that the Queen — God bless her! — does 
not reckon for a private soldier to kape ele- 
phints an’ palanquins an’ sich in barracks. 
Afther we had dhragged ut down from 
Dearsley’s through that cruel scrub that near 
broke Orth’ris’s heart, we set ut in the ravine 
for a night; an’ a thief av a porcupine an’ a 
civet-cat av a jackal roosted in ut, as well we 
knew in the mornin’. I put ut to you, sor, is 
an elegint palanquin, fit for the princess, the 
natural abidin’ place av all the vermin in can- 
tonmints? We brought ut to you afther 
dark, and put ut in your sthable. Do not 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


23 


let your conscience prick. Think av the 
rejoicin’ men in the pay-shed yonder — 
lookin’ at Dearsley wid his head tied up in a 
towel — an’ well knowin’ that they can dhraw 
their pay ivry month widout stoppages for 
riffles. Indirectly, sorr, you have rescued 
from an onprincipled son av a night-hawk 
the peasanthry av a numerous village. An’ 
besides, will I let that sedan-chair rot on our 
hands? Not I. ’Tis not every day a piece av 
pure joolry comes into the market. There^’s 
not a king widin these forty miles” — he 
waved his hand round the dusty horizon — 
“not a king wud not be glad to buy ut. Some 
day meself, when I have leisure. I’ll take 
ut up along the road an’ dishpose av ut.” 

“How?” said I, for I knew the man was 
capable of anything. 

“Get into ut, av coorse, and keep wan eye 
open through the curtains. Whin I see a 
likely man av the native persuasion, I will 
descind blushin’ from my canopy and say, 
‘Buy a palanquin, ye black scutt?’ I will 
have to hire four men to carry me first, 
though; and that’s impossible till next pay- 
day.” 

Curiously enough, Learoyd, who had 
fought for the prize, and in the winning se- 


24 


THE INCARNATION OF 


cured the highest pleasure life had to offer 
him, was altogether disposed to undervalue 
it, while Ortheris openly said it would be 
better to break the thing up. Dearsley, he 
argued, might be a many-sided man, capable, 
despite his magnificent fighting qualities, of 
setting in motion the machinery of the civil 
law — a thing much abhorred by the soldier. 
Under any circumstances their fun had come 
and passed; the next pay-day was close at 
hand, when there would be beer for all. 
Wherefore longer conserve the painted palan- 
quin? 

‘‘A first-class rifle-shot an’ a good little 
man av your inches you are,” said Mulvaney. 
‘'But you niver had a head worth a soft- 
boiled egg. ’Tis me has to lie awake av 
nights schamin’ an’ plottin’ for the three av 
us. Orth’ris, me son, ’tis no matther av a 
few gallons av beer — no, nor twenty gallons 
— but tubs an* vats an’ firkins in that sedan- 
chair. Who ut was, an’ what ut was, an’ 
how ut got there, we do not know; but I 
I know in my bones that you an’ me an’ Jock 
wid his sprained thumb will get a fortune 
thereby. Lave me alone, an’ let me think.” 

Meantime the palanquin stayed in my stall, 
the key of which was in Mulvaney’s hands. 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


25 


Pay-day came, and with it beer. It was 
not in experience to hope that Mulvaney, 
dried by four weeks’ drought, would avoid 
excess. Next morning he and the palanquin 
had disappeared. He had taken the precau- 
tion of getting three days’ leave '‘to see a 
friend on the railway,” and the colonel, well 
knowing that the seasonal outburst was near, 
and hoping it would spend its force beyond the 
limits of his jurisdiction, cheerfully gave him 
all he demanded. At this point Mulvaney’s 
history, as recorded in the mess-room, 
stopped. 

Ortheris carried it not much further. "No, 
’e wasn’t drunk,” said the little man loyally, 
"the liquor was no more than feelin’ its way 
round inside of ’im ; but ’e went an’ filled that 
ole bloomin’ palanquin with bottles ’fore he 
went off. ’E’s gone an’ ’ired six men to 
carry ’im, an’ I ’ad to ’elp ’im into ’is nupshal 
couch, ’cause ’e wouldn’t ’ear reason. ’E’s 
gone off in ’is shirt an’ trousies, swearin’ tre- 
menjus — gone down the road in the palan- 
quin, wavin’ ’is legs out o’ windy.” 

"Yes,” said I, "but where?” 

"Now you arx me a question. ’E said ’e 
was goin’ to sell that palanquin, but from ob- 
servations what happened when I was stuffin’ 


26 


THE INCARNATION OF 


’im through the door, I fancy ’e’s gone to the 
new embankment to mock at Dearsley. ’Soon 
as Jock’s ofY duty I’m goin’ there to see if 
’e’s safe — not Mulvaney, but t’other man. 
My saints, but I pity ’im as ’elps Terence out 
o’ the palanquin when ’e’s once fair drunk!” 

‘‘He’ll come back without harm,” I said. 

, “ ’Corse ’e will. On’y question is, what’ll 
’e be doin’ on the road? Killing Dearsley, 
like as not. ’E shouldn’t ’a gone without 
Jock or me.” 

Reinforced by Learoyd, Ortheris sought 
the foreman of the coolie-gang. Dearsley’s 
head was still embellished with towels. Mul- 
vaney, drunk or sober, would have struck no 
man in that condition, and Dearsley indig- 
nantly denied that he would have taken ad- 
vantage of the intoxicated brave. 

“I had my pick o’ you two,” he explained 
to Learoyd, “and you got my palanquin — • 
not before I’d made my profit on it. Why’d 
I do harm when everything’s settled? Your 
man did come here — drunk as Davy’s sow on 
a frosty night — came a-purpose to mock me 
— stuck his head out of the door an’ called me 
a crucified hodman. I made him drunker, 
an’ sent him along. But I never touched 
him.” 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


27 


To these things Learoyd, slow to perceive 
the evidences of sincerity, answered only, “if 
owt comes to Mulvaney ’long o’ you, I’ll 
gripple you, clouts or no clouts on your ugly 
head, an’ I’ll draw t’ throat twistways, man. 
See there, now.” 

The embassy removed itself, and Dearsley, 
the battered, laughed alone over his supper 
that evening. 

Three days passed — a fourth and a fifth. 
The week drew to a close and Mulvaney did 
not return. He, his royal palanquin, and his 
six attendants, had vanished into air. A very 
large and very tipsy soldier, his feet stick- 
ing out of the litter of a reigning princess, is 
not a thing to travel along the ways without 
comment. Yet no man of all the country 
round had seen any such wonder. He was, 
and he was not; and Learoyd suggested the 
immediate smashment of Dearsley as a sac- 
rifice to his ghost. Ortheris insisted that all 
was well, and in the light of past experience 
his hopes seemed reasonable. 

“When Mulvaney goes up the road,” said 
he, “ ’e’s like to go a very long ways up, spe- 
cially when ’e’s so blue drunk as ’e is now 
But what gits me ’is not bein’ ’eard of pullin’ 
wool off the niggers somewheres about. 


28 


THE INCARNATION OE 


THat don’t look good. The drink must ha’ 
died out in ’im by this, unless ’e’s broke a 
bank, an’ then — Why don’t ’e come back? ’E 
didn’t ought to ha’ gone off without us.” 

Even Ortheris’s heart sank at the end of 
the seventh day, for half the regiment were 
out scouring the country-side, and Learoyd 
had been forced to fight two men who hinted 
openly that Mulvaney had deserted. To do 
him justice, the colonel laughed at the notion, 
even when it was put forward by his much- 
trusted adjutant. 

“Mulvaney would as soon think of desert- 
ing as you would,” said he. “No; he’s either 
fallen into a mischief among the villagers' — 
and yet that isn’t likely, for he’d blarney him- 
self out of the Pit; or else he is engaged on 
urgent private affairs — some stupendous dev- 
ilment that we shall hear of at mess after it 
has been the round of the barrack-rooms. 
The worst of it is that I shall have to give 
him twenty-eight days’ confinement at least 
for being absent without leave, just when I 
most want him to lick the new batch of re- 
cruits into shape. I never knew a man who 
could put a polish on young soldiers as 
quickly as Mulvaney can. How does he do 
it?” 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


29 


'‘With blarney and the buckle-end of a belt, 
sir,” said the adjutant. "He is worth a 
couple of non-commissioned officers when we 
are dealing with an Irish draft, and the Lon- 
don lads seem to adore him. The worst of it 
is that if he goes to the cells the other two 
are neither to hold nor to bind till he comes 
out again. I believe Ortheris preaches mu- 
tiny on those occasions, and I know that the 
mere presence of Learoyd mourning for 
Mulvaney kills all the cheerfulness of his 
room. The sergeants tell me that he allows 
no man to laugh when he feels unhappy. 
They are a queer gang.” 

"For all that, I wish we had a few more 
of them. I like a well-conducted regiment, 
but these pasty-faced, shifty-eyed, mealy- 
mouthed young slouchers from the depot 
worry me sometimes with their offensive vir- 
tue. They don't seem to have backbone 
enough to do anything but play cards and 
prowl around the married quarters. I be- 
lieve I’d forgive that old villain on the spot 
if he turned up with any sort of explanation 
that I could in decency accept.” 

"Not likely to be much difficulty about 
that, sir,” said the adjutant. "Mulvaney’s 
explanations are only one degree less wonder- 


30 


THE INCARNATION OF 


ful than his performances. They say that 
when he was in the Black Tyrone, before he 
came to us, he was discovered on the banks 
of the Liffey trying to sell his colonel’s 
charger to a Donegal dealer as a perfect 
lady’s hack. Shackbolt commanded the Ty- 
rone then.” 

‘'Shackbolt must have had apoplexy at the 
thought of his ramping war-horses answering 
to that description. He used to buy un- 
backed devils, and tame them on some pet 
theory of starvation. What did Mulvaney 
say?” 

“That he was a member of the Society for 
the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, 
anxious to ‘sell the poor baste where he 
would get something to fill out his dimples.’ 
Shackbolt laughed, but I fancy that was why 
Mulvaney exchanged to ours.’^ 

“I wish he were back,” said the colonel; 
“for I like him and believe he likes me.” 

That evening, to cheer our souls, Learoyd, 
Ortheris, and I went into the waste to smoke 
out a porcupine. All the dogs attended, but 
even their clamor — and they began to discuss 
the shortcomings of porcupines before they 
left cantonments — could not take us out of 
ourselves. A large, low moon turned the 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


31 


tops of the plumegrass to silver, and the 
stunted camelthorn bushes and sour tamarisks 
into the likeness of trooping devils. The 
smell of the sun had not left the earth, and 
little aimless winds blowing across the rose- 
gardens to the southward brought the scent 
of dried roses and water. Our fire once 
started, and the dogs craftily disposed to 
wait the dash of the porcupine, we climbed to 
the top of a rainscarred hillock of earth, and 
looked across the scrub seamed with cattle 
paths, white with long grass, and dotted with 
spots of level pond-bottom, where the snipe 
would gather in winter. 

‘‘This,” said Ortheris, with a sigh, as he 
took in the unkempt desolation of it all, “this 
is sanguinary. This is unusually sanguinary. 
Sort o’ mad country. Like a grate when the 
fire’s put out by the sun.” He shaded his 
eyes against the moonlight. “An’ there’s a 
loony dancin’ in the middle of it all. Quite 
right. I’d dance too if I wasn’t so down- 
heart.” 

There pranced a Portent in the face of the 
moon — a huge and ragged spirit of the waste, 
that flapped its wings from afar. It had 
risen out of the earth ; it was coming towards 
us, and its outline was never twice the same. 


'3z 


THE INCARNATION OF 


The toga, table-cloth, or dressing-gown, what- 
ever the creature wore, took a hundred 
shapes. Once it stopped on a neighboring 
mound and flung all its legs and arms to the 
winds. 

“My, but that scarecrow ’as got ’em bad!” 
said Ortheris. “Seems like if ’e comes any 
furder we’ll ’ave to argify with ’im.” 

Learoyd raised himself from the dirt as a 
bull clears his flanks of the wallow. And as 
a bull bellows, so he, after a short minute at 
gaze, gave tongue to the stars. 

“Mulvaaney! Mulvaaney! A-hoo!” 

Oh then it was that we yelled, and the 
figure dipped into the hollow, till, with a 
crash of rending grass, the lost one strode up 
to the light of the fire, and disappeared to the 
waist in a wave of joyous dogs! Then 
Learoyd and Ortheris gave greeting, bass and 
falsetto together, both swallowing a lump in 
the throat. 

“You damned fool!” said they, and 
severally pounded him with their fists. 

“Go easy!” he answered; wrapping a huge 
arm around each. “I would have you to 
know that I am a god, to be treated as such — 
tho’, by my faith, I fancy I’ve got to go to 
the guardroom just like a privit soldier.” 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


33 


The latter part of the sentence destroyed 
the suspicions raised by the former. Any- 
one would have been justified in regarding 
Mulvaney as mad. He was hatless and shoe- 
less, and his shirt and trousers were drop- 
ping off him. But he wore one wondrous 
garment — a gigantic cloak that fell from 
collar-bone to heel — of pale pink silk wrought 
all over in cunningest needlework of hands 
long since dead, with the loves of the Hindu 
gods. The monstrous figures leaped in and 
out of the light of the fire as he settled the 
folds round him. 

Ortheris handled the stuff respectfully for 
a moment while I was trying to remember 
where I had seen it before. Then he screamed, 
“What 'ave you done with the palanquin? 
You’re wearin’ the linin’.” 

“I am,” said the Irishman, “an’ by the same 
token the ’broidery is scrapin’ my hide off. 
I’ve lived in this sumpshus counterpane for 
four days. Me son, I begin to ondherstand 
why the naygur is no use. Widout me boots, 
an’ me trousies like an openwork stocking on 
a gyurl’s leg at a dance, I begin to feel like a 
naygur-man — all feaful an’ timoreous. 
Give me a pipe an’ I’ll tell on.” 

He lit a pipe, resumed his grip of his two 


34 


THE INCARNATION OF 


friends, and rocked to and fro in a gale of 
laughter. 

‘‘Mulvaney,” said Ortheris sternly, ‘‘tain't 
no time for laughin’. You’ve given Jock an’ 
me more trouble than you’re worth. You 
’ave been absent without leave an’ you’ll go 
into cells for that; an’ you ’ave come back 
disgustin’ly dressed an’ most improper in the 
linin’ o’ that bloomin’ palanquin. Instid of 
which you laugh. An’ we thought you was 
dead all the time.” 

^'Bhoys,” said the culprit, still shaking 
gently, ‘Vhin I’ve done my tale you may cry 
if you like, an’ little Orth’ris here can 
thrample my inside out. Ha’ done an’ listen. 
My performinces have been stupenjus: my 
luck has been the blessed luck av the British 
Army — an’ there’s no betther than that. I 
went out dhrunk an’ dhrinkin’ in the palan- 
quin, and I have come back a pink god. Did 
any of you go to Dearsley afther my time was 
up? He was at the bottom of ut all.” 

^‘Ah said so,” murmured Learoyd. ‘‘To- 
morrow ah’ll smash t’ face in upon his heead.” 

“Ye will not. Dearsley’s a jool av a man. 
Afther Ortheris had put me into the palanquin 
an’ the six bearer-men were gruntin’ down the 
road, I tuk thought to mock Dearsley for that 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


35 


fight. So I toiild thim, 'Go to the embank- 
mint/ and there, bein’ most amazin’ full, I 
shtuck my head out av the concern an’ passed 
compliments wid Dearsley. I must ha’ 
miscalled him outrageous, for whin I am that 
way the power av the tongue comes on me. 
I can bare remimber tellin’ him that his mouth 
opened endways like the mouth av a skate, 
which was thrue afther Learoyd had handled 
ut; an’ I clear remimber his takin’ no manner 
nor matter av offence, but givin’ me a big 
dhrink of beer. ’Twas the beer did the 
thrick, for I crawled back into the palanquin, 
steppin’ on me right ear wid me left foot, an’ 
thin I slept like the dead. Wasnt I half- 
roused, an’ begad the noise in my head was 
tremenjus — roarin’ and rattlin’ an’ poundin’, 
such as was quite new to me. 'Mother av 
Mercy,’ thinks I, 'phwat a concertina I will 
have on my shoulders whin I wake !’ An’ wid 
that I curls mysilf up to sleep before ut should 
get hold on me. Bhoys, that noise was not 
dhrink, ’twas the rattle av a thrain!” 

There followed an impressive pause. 

"Yes, he had put me on a thrain — put me, 
palanquin an’ all, an’ six black assassins av 
his own coolies that was in his nefarious con- 
fidence, on the flat av a ballast-thruck, and 


36 THE INCARNATION OF 


we were rowlin’ an’ bowlin’ along to Benares. 
Glory be to that I did not wake up thin an’ 
intro juce mysilf to the coolies. As I was 
sayin’, I slept for the betther part av a day 
an’ a night. But remimber you, that that 
man Dearsley had packed me off on wan av 
his material-thrains to Benares, all for to make 
me overstay my leave an’ get me into the 
cells. 

The explanation was an eminently rational 
one. Benares lay at least ten hours by rail 
from the cantonments, and nothing in the 
world could have saved Mulvaney from ar- 
rest as a deserter had he appeared there in 
the apparel of his orgies. Dearsley had not 
forgotten to take revenge. Learoyd, draw- 
ing back a little, began to place soft blows 
over selected portions of Mulvaney’s body. 
His thoughts were away on the embankment, 
and they meditated evil for Dearsley. Mul- 
vaney continued — 

‘‘Whin I was full awake the palanquin was 
set down in a street, I suspicioned, for I cud 
hear people passin’ an’ talkin’. But I knew 
well I was far from home. There is a queer 
smell upon our cantonments — a smell av 
dried earth an’ brick kilns wid whiffs of 
cavalry stable-litter. This place smelt 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


37 


marigold flowers an’ bad water, an’ wanst 
somethin’ alive came an’ blew heavy with his 
muzzle at the chink av the shutter. 'It’s in a 
village I am,’ thinks I to myself, 'an’ the 
parochial buffalo is investigatin’ the palan- 
quin.’ But anyways I had no desire to move. 
Only lie still whin you’re in foreign parts an’ 
the standin’ luck av the British Army will 
carry ye through. That is an epigram. I 
made ut. 

"Thin a lot av whisperin’ divils surrounded 
the palanquin. 'Take ut up,’ sez wan man. 
'But who’ll pay us? sez another. 'The Maha- 
ranee’s minister, av coorse,’ sez the man. 
'Oho!’ sez I to myself, 'I’m a quane in me 
own right, wid a minister to pay me ex- 
penses. I’ll be an emperor if I lie still long 
enough; but this is no village I’ve found.’ I 
lay quiet, but I gummed me right eye to a 
crack av the shutters, an’ I saw that the whole 
street was crammed with palanquins an’ 
horses, an’ a sprinklin’ av naked priests all 
yellow powder an’ tigers’ tails. But I may 
tell you, Orth’ris, an’ you, Learoyd, that av 
all the palanquins ours was the most imperial 
an’ magnificent. Now a palanquin means a 
native lady all the world over, except whin a 
soldier av the Quane happens to be takin’ a 


38 THE INCARNATION OF 


ride. ‘Women an^ priests !’ sez 1. ‘Your 
father’s son is in the right pew this time, 
Terence. There will be proceedin’s.’ Six 
black divils in pink muslin tuk up the palan- 
quin, an’ ohi but the rcwlin’ an’ the rockin’ 
made me sick. Thin we got fair jammed 
among the palanquins — not more than fifty 
av them — an’ we grated an’ bumped like 
Queenstown potato-smacks in a runnin’ tide. 
I cud hear the women gigglin’ and squirkin’ 
in their palanquins, but mine was the royal 
equipage. They made way for ut, an’, begad 
the pink muslin men o’ mine were howlin’, 
‘Room for the Maharanee av Gokral-Seetar- 
un.’ Do you know aught av the lady, sorr?” 

“Yes,” said 1. “She is a very estimable 
old queen of the Central Indian States, and 
they say she is fat How on earth could she 
go to Benares without all the city knowing 
her palanquin?” 

“’Twas the eternal foolishness of the nay- 
gurman. They saw the palanquin lying lone- 
ful an’ forlornsome, an’ the beauty av ut, 
after Dearsley’s men had dhropped ut and 
gone away, an’ they gave us the best name 
that occurred to thim. Quite right too. For 
aught we know the ould lady was travelin’ 
incog — like me. I’m glad to hear she’s fat. 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


39 


I was no light weight myself, an’ my men 
were mortial anxious to dhrop me under a 
great big archway promiscuously ornamented 
wid the most improper carvin’s an’ cuttin’s I 
iver saw. Begad! they made me blush — like 
a — like a Maharanee.” 

‘^The temple of Prithi-Devil,” I mur- 
mured, remembering the monstrous horrors 
of that sculptured archway at Benares. 

^Tretty Devilskins, savin’ your presence, 
sorr! There was nothin’ pretty about it, ex- 
cept me. ’Twas all half dhark, an’ whin the 
coolies left they shut a big black gate behind 
av us, an’ half a company av fat yellow 
priests began pullyhaulin’ the palanquins into 
a dharker place yet — a big stone wall full av 
pillars, an’ gods, an’ incense, an’ all manner 
av similar thruck. The gate disconcerted me, 
for I perceived I wud have to go forward to 
get out, my retreat bein’ cut off. By the 
same token a good priest makes a bad palan- 
quin-coolie. Begad! they nearly turned me 
inside out draggin’ the palanquin to the 
temple. Now the disposishin av the forces 
inside was this way. The Maharanee av 
Gokral-Seetarun — that was me — lay by the 
favor av Providence on the far left flank 
behind the dhark av a pillar carved with 


40 


THE INCARNATION OF 


elephants’ heads. The remainder av the 
palanquins was in a big half circle facing in to 
the biggest, fattest, an’ most amazjn’ she-god 
that iver I dreamed av. Her head ran up 
into the black above us, an’ her feet stuck out 
in the light av a little fire av melted butter 
that a priest was feedin’ out av a butter-dish. 
Thin a man began to sing an’ play on some- 
thin’ back in the dhark, an’ ’twas a queer song. 
Ut made my hair lift on the back av my neck. 
Thin the doors av all the palanquins slid 
back, an’ the women bundled out. I saw 
what ni niver see again. ’Twas more 
glorious than thransformations at a panto- 
mime, for they was in pink an’ blue an’ silver 
an’ red an’ grass green, wid di’monds an’ 
im’ralds an’ great red rubies all over thim. 
But that was the least part av the glory. O 
bhoys, they were more lovely than the like av 
any loveliness in hiven; ay, their little bare 
feet were better than the white hands av a 
lord’s lady, an’ their mouths were like 
puckered roses, an’ their eyes were bigger an’ 
dharker than the eyes av any livin’ women 
I’ve seen. Ye may laugh, but I’m speakin’ 
truth. I niver saw the like, an’ niver I will 
again.” 

‘‘Seeing that in all probability you were 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


41 


watching the wives and daughters of most 
of the kings of India, the chances are that 
you won’t,” I said, for it was dawning on me 
that Mulvaney had stumbled upon a big 
Queen’s Praying at Benares. 

“I niver will,” he said, mournfully. ‘^That 
sight doesn’t come twist to any man. It 
made me ashamed to watch. A fat priest 
knocked at my door. I didn’t think he’d 
have the insolince to disturb the Maharanee 
av Gokral-Seetarun, so I lay still. ‘The old 
cow’s asleep,’ sez he to another. ‘Let her be,’ 
sez that. ‘’Twill be long before she has a 
calf!’ I might ha’ known before he spoke 
that all a woman prays for in Injia — an’ for 
matter o’ that in England too — is childher. 
That made me more sorry I’d come, me bein’, 
as you well know, a childless man.” 

He was silent for a moment, thinking of 
his little son, dead many years ago. 

“They prayed, an’ the butter-fires blazed up 
an’ the incense turned everything blue, an’ be- 
tween that an’ the fires the women looked as 
tho’ they were all ablaze an’ twinklin’. They 
took hold av the she-god’s knees, they cried 
out an’ they threw themselves about, an’ that 
world-without-end-amen music was dhrivin’ 
thim mad. Mother av Hiven! how they 
cried, an’ the ould she-god grinnin’ above 


42 


THE INCARNATION OF 


thim all so scornful! The dhrink was dyin^ 
out in me fast, an’ I was thinkin’ harder than 
the thoughts wud go through my head — 
thinkin’ how to get out, an’ all manner of non- 
sense as well. The women were rockin’ in 
rows, their di’mond belts clickin’, an’ the 
tears runnin’ out betune their hands, an’ the 
lights were goin’ lower an’ dharker. Thin 
there was a blaze like lightnin’ from the roof, 
an’ that showed me the inside av the palan- 
quin, an’ at the end where my foot was, stood 
the livin’ spit an’ image o’ mysilf worked on 
the linin’. This man here, ut was.” 

He hunted in the folds of his pink cloak, 
ran a hand under one, and thrust into the fire- 
light a foot-long embroidered presentment of 
the great god Krishna, playing on a flute. The 
heavy jowl, the staring eye, and the blue-black 
moustache of the god made up a far-off re- 
semblance to Mulvaney. 

‘‘The blaze was gone in a wink, but the 
whole schame came to me thin. I believe I 
was mad too. I slid the off-shutter open an’ 
rowled out into the dhark behind the elephint- 
head pillar, tucked up my trousies to my 
knees, slipped off my boots an’ tuk a general 
hold av all the pink linin’ av the palanquin. 
Glory be, ut ripped out like a woman’s dhriss 
whin you tread on ut at a sergeant’s ^ball, an’ 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


43 


a bottle came with ut. I tuk the bottle an’ the 
next minit I was out av the dhark av the 
pillar, the pink linin’ wrapped round me most 
graceful, the music thunderin’ like kettle- 
drums, an’ a could draft blowin’ round my 
bare legs. By this hand that did ut, I was 
Khrishna tootlin’ on the flute — the god that 
the rig-mental chaplain talks about. A sweet 
sight I must ha’ looked. I knew my eyes were 
big, and my face was wax- white, an’ at the 
worst I must ha’ looked like a ghost. But 
they took me for the livin’ god. The music 
stopped, and the women were dead dumb an’ 
I crooked my legs like a shepherd on a china 
basin, an’ I did the ghost-waggle with my 
feet as I had done ut at the rig’mental theatre 
many times, an’ I slid acrost the width av that 
temple in front av the she-god tootlin’ on the 
beer bottle.” 

^‘Wot did you toot?” demanded Ortheris 
the practical. 

‘'Me? Oh!” Mulvaney sprang up, suiting 
the action to the word, and sliding gravely in 
front of us, a dilapidated but imposing deity 
in the half light. ‘T sang — 

“Only say 

You’ll be Mrs, Brallaghan. 

Don’t say nay, 

Charmin’ Judy Callaghan. 


44 


THE INCARNATION OF 


I didn’t know me own voice when I sang. 
An’ oh! ’twas pitiful to see the women. The 
darlin’s were down on their knees. When I 
passed the last wan I cud see her poor little 
fingers workin’ one in another as if she 
wanted to touch my feet. So I dhrew the 
tail av this pink overcoat over her head for 
the greater honor, an’ I slid into the dhark 
on the other side av the temple, and fetched 
up in the arms of a big fat priest. All I 
wanted was to get away clear. So I tuk him 
by his greasy throat an’ shut the speech out 
av him. 'Out!’ sez I. 'Which way, ye fat 
heathen?’ — 'Oh!’ sez he. 'Man,’ sez I. 
'White man, soldier man, common soldier 
man. Where in the name av confusion is the 
back door?’ The women in the temple were 
still on their faces, an’ a young priest was 
holdin’ out his arms above their heads. 

" 'This way,’ sez my fat friend, duckin’ 
behind a big bull-god an’ divin’ into a passage. 
Thin I remimbered that I must ha’ made the 
miraculous reputation av that temple for the 
next fifty years. 'Not so fast,’ I sez, an’ I 
held out both my hands with a wink. That 
ould thief smiled like a father. I took him by 
the back av the neck in case he should be 
wishful to put a knife unto me unbeknownst, 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


45 


an’ I ran him up and down the passage twice 
to collect his sensibilities! ‘Be quiet,’ sez he, 
in English. ‘Now you talk sense,’ I sez. 
‘Fwhat’ll you give me for the use av that 
most iligant palanquin I have no time to take 
away?’ — ‘Don’t tell,’ sez he. ‘Is ut like?’ sez 
I. ‘But ye might give me my railway fare. 
I’m far from my home an’ I’ve done you a 
service. Bhoys, ’tis a good thing to be a 
priest. The old man niver throubled himself 
to dhraw from a bank. As I will prove to 
you subsequint, he philandered all round the 
slack av his clothes an’ began dribblin’ ten- 
rupee notes, old gold mohurs, and rupees into 
my hand till I could hould no more.” 

“You lie!” said Ortheris. “You’re mad or 
sunstrook. A native don’t give coin unless 
you cut it out o’ ’im. ’Taint nature.” 

“Then my lie an’ my sunstroke is concealed 
under that lump av sod yonder,” retorted 
Mulvaney, unruffled, nodding across the 
scrub. “An’ there’s a dale more in nature than 
your squidgy little legs have iver taken you 
to, Orth’ris, me son. Four hundred an’ 
thirty-four rupees by my reckonin’, an' a big 
fat gold necklace that I took from him as a 
remimbrancer, was our share in that 
business.” 


46 THE INCARNATION OF 


‘‘An give it to you for love/^ said 
Ortheris. 

“We were alone in that passage. Maybe I 
was a trifle too pressin’, but considher fwhat 
I had done for the good av the temple, and 
the iverlasting joy av those women. 'Twas 
cheap at the price. I wud ha’ taken more if I 
cud ha’ found ut. I turned the ould man up- 
side down at the last, but he was milked d'-'^y. 
Thin he opened a door in another passage an’ 
I found mysilf up to my knees in Benares 
river-water, an’ bad smellin’ ut is. More by 
token I had come out on the river-line close to 
the burnin’ ghat and contagious to a cracklin’ 
corpse. This was in the heart av the night, 
for I had been four hours in the temple. There 
was a crowd of boats tied up, so I tuk wan an’ 
wint across the river. Thin I came home 
acrost country, lyin’ up by day.” 

“How on earth did you manage?” I said. 

“How did Sir Frederick Roberts get from 
Cabul to Candahar? He marched an’ he 
niver tould how near he was to breakin’ down. 
That’s why he is fwhat he is. An’ now” — 
Mulvaney yawned portentously. “Now I will 
go an’ give myself up for absince widout 
leave. It’s eight an’ twenty days an’ the 
rough end of the colonel’s tongue in orderly 


KRISHNA MULVANEY 


47 


room, any way you look at ut. But 'tis 
cheap at the price.’' 

''Mulvaney,” said I, softly. “If there hap- 
pens to be any sort of excuse that the colonel 
can in any way accept, I have a notion that 
you’ll get nothing more than the dressing- 
gown. The new recruits are in, and” — 

“Not a word more, sorr. Is ut excuses the 
old man wants? ’Tis not my way, but he 
shall have thim. I’ll tell him I was engaged 
in financial operations connected with a 
church,” and he flapped his way to canton- 
ments and the cells, singing lustily — 


“ So they sent a corp’ril’s file, 

And they put me in the gyard-room 
For conduck unbecomin’ of a soldier.” 


And when he was lost in the midst of the 
moonlight we could hear the refrain — 


“ Bang upon the big drum, bash upon the cymbals. 

As we go marchin’ along, boys, oh! 

For although in this camf •'.ign 
There’s no whisky nor champagne. 

We'll keep our spirits goin' with a song, boys !” 

Therewith he surrendered himself to the 
joyful and almost weeping guard, and was 
made much of by his fellows. But to the 


48 THE INCARNATION OF 

colonel he said that he had been smitten with 
sunstroke and had lain insensible on a vil- 
lager’s cot for untold hours; and between 
laughter and good-will the affair was 
smoothed over, so that he could, next day, 
teach the new recruits how to ‘‘Fear God, 
Honor the Queen, Shoot Straight, and Keep 
Clean.” 


THE THREE MUSKETEERS 



THE THREE MUSKETEERS 


An’ when the war began, we chased the bold Afghan, 
An’ we made the bloomin’ Ghazi for to flee, boys O ! 
An’ we marched into Yiabul, an’ we tuk the Balar ’Issar 
An’ we taught ’em to respec’ the British Soldier. 

Barrack Room Ballad. 

M ULVANEY, Ortheris and Learoyd are 
Privates in B Company of a Line Regi- 
ment, and personal friends of mine. Collect- 
ively I think, but am not certain, they are the 
worst men in the regiment so far as genial 
blackguardism goes. 

They told me this story, in the Umballa 
Refreshment Room while we were waiting 
for an up-train. I supplied the beer. The 
tale was cheap at a gallon and a half. 

All men know Lord Benira Trig. He is a 
Duke, or an Earl, or something unofficial; 
also a Peer; also a Globe-trotter. On all 
three counts, as Ortheris says, ’e didn’t 
deserve consideration.” He was out in India 
for three months collecting materials for a 
book on *'Our Eastern Impedimenta,” and 
SI 


52 THE THREE MUSKETEERS 


quartering himself upon everybody, like a 
Cossack in evening-dress. 

His particular vice — because he was a 
Radical, men said — was having garrisons 
turned out for his inspection. He would 
then dine with the Officer Commanding, and 
insult him, across the Mess table, about the 
appearance of the troops. That was Benira’s 
way. 

He turned out troops once too often. He 
came to Helanthami Cantonment on a Tues- 
day. He wished to go shopping in the 
bazars on Wednesday, and he ^'desired” the 
troops to be turned out on a Thursday. On 
— a — Thursday, The Officer Commanding 
could not well refuse; for Benira was a Lord. 
There was an indignation meeting of sub- 
alterns in the Mess Room, to call the Colonel 
pet names. 

‘‘But the rale dimonstrashin,” said Mul- 
vaney, “was in B Comp’ny barrick ; we 
three headin’ it.” 

Mulvaney climbed on to the refreshment- 
bar, settled himself comfortably by the beer, 
and went on, “Whin the row was at ut’s 
foinest an’ B Comp’ny was fur goin’ out to 
murther this man Thrigg on the p’rade- 
groun’, Learoyd here takes up his helmet an’ 
sez — fwhat was ut ye said?” 


THE THREE MUSKETEERS 53 


said,” said Learoyd, ‘^gie us t’ brass. 
Tak oop a siibscripshun, lads, for to put off 
t' p’rade, an’ if t’ p’rade’s not put off, ah’ll gie 
t’ brass back agean. Thot’s wot ah said. All 
B Comp’ny knawed me. Ah took oop a big 
subscripshun — fower rupees eight annas 
’twas — an’ ah went oot to turn t’ job over. 
Mulvaney an’ Orth’ris coom with me.” 

*‘We three raises the Divil in couples 
gin’rally,” explained Mulvaney. 

Here Ortheris interrupted. ’Ave you 
read the papers?” said he. 

“Sometimes,” I said. 

“We ’ad read the papers, an’ we put hup a 
faked decoity, a — a sedukshun.” 

“A&dukshin, ye cockney,” said Mulvaney. 

“A&dukshun or .f^dukshun — no great odds. 
Any’ow, we arranged to taik an’ put Mister 
Benhira out o’ the way till Thursday was 
hover, or ’e too busy to rux ’isself about 
p’raids. Hi was the man wot said, ‘We’ll 
make a few rupees off o’ the business.’ ” 

“We hild a Council av War,” continued 
Mulvaney, “walkin’ roun’ by the Artill’ry 
Lines. I was Prisidint, Learoyd was 
Minister av Finance, an’ little Orth’ris here 
was” — 

“A bloomin’ Bismarck! Hi made the ’ole 
show pay.” 


54 the three musketeers 


"'This interferin’ bit av a Benira man,” said 
Mulvaney, ''did the thrick for us himself ; for, 
on me sowl, we hadn’t a notion av what was 
to come afther the next minut. He was 
shoppin’ in the bazar on fut. ’Twas dhrawin’ 
dusk thin, an’ we stud watchin’ the little man 
hoppin’ in an’ out av the shops, thryin’ to 
injuce the naygurs to mallum his bat. 
Prisintly, he sthrols up, his arrums full av 
thruck, an’ he sez in a consiquinshal way, 
shticking out his little belly, 'Me good men,’ 
sez he, 'have ye seen the Kernel’s b’roosh?’ — 
'Broosh ?’ says Learoyd. There’s no b’roosh 
here — nobbut a hekka/ — 'Fwhat’s that?’ sez 
Thrigg. Learoyd shows him wan down the 
sthreet, an’ he sez, 'How thruly Orientil! I 
will ride on a hekka.' I saw thin that our 
Rigimintal Saint was for givin’ Thrigg over 
to us neck an’ brisket. I purshued a hekka, 
an’ I sez to the dhriver-divil, I sez, 'Ye black 
limb, there’s a Sahib cornin’ for this hekka. 
He wants to go jildi to the Padsahi Jhil’ — 
’twas about tu moiles away — 'to shoot snipe — 
chirria. You dhrive Jehannum ke marfik, 
mallum — like Hell? ’Tis no manner av use 
bukkin* to the Sahib ^ bekaze he doesn’t 
samjao your talk. Av he bolos anything, 
just you choop and chel Dekkerf Go arsty 


THE THREE MUSKETEERS 55 


for the first arder-mW^ from cantonmints. 
Thin, chel, Shaitan ke marfik, an’ the chooper 
you choops an’ the jildier you chels the better 
kooshy will that Sahib be; an’ here’s a rupee 
for ye?’ 

^The hekka-rmn knew there was somethin’ 
out av the common in the air. He grinned 
an’ sez, 'Bote ache el I goin’ damn fast.’ I 
prayed that the Kernel’s b’roosh wudn’t ar- 
rive till me darlin’ Benira by the grace av God 
was undher weigh. The little man puts his 
thruck into the hekka an’ scuttles in like a fat 
guinea-pig; niver offerin’ us the price av a 
dhrink for our services in helpin’ him home. 
‘He’s off to the Padsahi jhil/ sez I to the 
others.” 

Ortheris took up the tale — 

“Jist then, little Buldoo kim up, ’00 was the 
son of one of the Artillery grooms — ’e would 
’av made a ’evinly newspaper-boy in London, 
bein’ sharp an’ fly to all manner o’ games. 
’E ’ad bin watchin’ us puttin’ Mister Benhira 
into ’is temporary baroush, an’ ’e sez, ‘What 
'ave you been a doin’ of. Sahibs?' sez ’e. 
Learoyd ’e caught ’im by the ear an ’e sez” — 

“Ah says,” went on Learoyd, ‘Young mon, 
that mon’s gooin’ to have t’ goons out o’ 
Thursday — tomorrow — an’ thot’s more work 


56 THE THREE MUSKETEERS 


for you, young mon. Now, sitha, tak’ a tat 
an' a lookri, an’ ride tha domdest to t’ Pad- 
sahi Jhil. Cotch thot there hekka, and tell 
t’ driver iv your lingo thot you’ve coom to 
tak’ his place. T’ Sahib doesn’t speak t’ bat, 
an’ he’s a little mon. Drive t’ hekka into t’ 
Padsahi Jhil into t’ watter. Leave t’ Sahib 
theer an’ roon hoam; an’ here’s a rupee for 
tha.’ ” 

Then Mulvaney and Ortheris spoke 
togther in alternate fragments : Mulvaney 
leading [You must pick out the two speakers 
as best you can] : — “He was a knowin’ little 
divil was Bhuldoo, — ’e sez bote achee an’ cuts 
— wid a wink in his oi — but Hi sez there’s 
money to be made — an’ I wanted to see the 
ind av the campaign — so Hi says we’ll double 
hout to the Padsahi Jhil — an’ save the little 
man from bein’ dacoited by the murtherin’ 
Bhuldoo — an’ turn hup like reskooers in a 
Vic’oria Melodrama — so we doubled for the 
jhil, an’ prisintly there was the divil av a 
hurroosh behind us an’ three bhoys on grass- 
cuts’ ponies come by, poundin’ along for the 
dear life — s’elp me Bob, hif Buldoo ’adn’t 
raised a rig’lar harmy of decoits — to do the 
job in shtile. An’ we ran, an’ they ran, 
shplittin’ with laughin’, till we gets near the 


THE THREE MUSKETEERS 57 


jhil — and ’ears sounds of distress floatin’ 
molloncolly on the hevenin’ hair.” [Ortheris 
was growing poetical under the influence of 
the beer. The duet recommenced: Mulvaney 
leading again.] 

“Thin we heard Bhuldoo, the dacoit, 
shoutin’ to the hekka man, an’ wan of the 
young divils brought his stick down on the 
top av the hekka-cowtr, an’ Benria Thrigg in- 
side howled ‘Murther an’ Death.’ Buldoo 
takes the reins and dhrives like mad for the 
jhil, havin’ dispersed the hekka-dhriver — ’00 
cum up to us an’ ’e sez, sez ’e, ‘That Sahib's 
nigh mad with funk! Wot devil’s work ’ave 
you led me into?’ — ‘Hall right,’ sez we, ‘you 
catch that there pony an’ come along. This 
Sahib's been decoited, an’ we’re going to resky 
’iml’ Says the driver, ‘Decoits! Wot decoits? 
That’s Buldoo the budmash' — ‘Bhuldoo be 
shot sez we. ‘ ’Tis a woild dissolute Pathan 
frum the hills. There’s about eight av thim 
coercin’ the Sahib. You remimber that an’ 
you’ll get another rupee! Thin we heard the 
whop-whop-whop av the hekka turnin’ over, 
an’ a splash av water an’ the voice av Benira 
Thrigg callin’ upon God to forgive his sins — 
an’ Buldoo an’ ’is friends squotterin’ in the 
water like boys in the Serpentine.” 


58 THE THREE MUSKETEERS 


Here the three musketeers retired simul- 
taneously into the beer. 

“Well? What came next?” said 1. 

“Fwhat nex’?” answered Mulvaney, 
wiping his mouth. “Wud ye let three bould 
sodgerbhoys lave the ornamint av the House 
av Lords to be dhrowned an’ dacoited in a 
jhitf We formed line av quarther-column 
an’ we discinded upon the inimy. For the 
better part av tin minutes you could not hear 
yerself spake. The tattoo was screamin’ in 
chune wid Benira Thrigg an’ Bhuldoo’s army, 
an’ the shticks was whistlin’ roun’ the hekka, 
an’ Orth’ris was heatin’ the hekka-cover wid 
his fistes, an’ Learoyd yellin’, ^Look out for 
their knives!’ an’ me cuttin’ into the dark, 
right an’ lef’, disphersin’ arrmy corps av 
Pathans. Holy Mother av Moses! ’Twas 
more disp’rit than Ahmid Kheyl wid 
Maiwund thrown in. Afther a while Bhuldoo 
an’ his bhoys flees. Have ye iver seen a rale 
live Lord thryin’ to hide his nobility undher 
a fut an’ a half av brown swamp-wather ? 
’Tis the livin’ image av a water-carrier’s goat- 
skin wid the shivers. It tuk toime to per- 
shuade me frind Benira he was not disim- 
bowilled : an’ more toime to get out the hekka. 
The dhriver come up afther the battle, swear- 


THE THREE MUSKETEERS 59 


in’ he tuk a hand in repulsin’ the inimy. Be- 
nira was sick wid the fear. We escorted him 
back, very slow, to cantonmints, for that an’ 
the chill to soak into him. It suk! Glory be 
to the Rigimintil Saint, but it suk to the 
marrow av Lord Benira Thrigg!” 

Here Ortheris, slowly, with immense pride 
— “ ’E sez, 'You har my noble preservers,’ 
sez ’e. 'You har a honor to the British 
Harmy,’ sez ’e. With that ’e describes the 
hawful band of dacoits wot set on ’im. 
There was about forty of ’em an’ ’e was 
hoverpowered by numbers, so ’e was ; but ’e 
never lorst ’is presence of mind, so ’e didn’t. 
’E guv the hekka-dr\Ytr five rupees for ’is 
noble assistance, an’ ’e said ’e would see to us 
after ’e ’ad spoken to the Kernul. For we 
was a honor to the Regiment, we was.” 

"An’ we three,” said Mulvaney, with a se- 
raphic smile, "have dhrawn the par-ti-cu-lar 
attinshin av Bobs Bahadur more than wanst. 
But he’s a rale good little man is Bobs. Go 
on, Oth’ris, my son.” 

"Then we leaves ’im at the Kernul’s ’ouse, 
werry sick, an’ we cuts hover to B. Comp’ny 
barrick an’ we sez we ’ave saved Benira from 
a bloody doom, an’ the chances was agin there 
bein’ p’raid on Thursday. About ten minutes 


6o THE THREE MUSKETEERS 


later come three envelicks, one for each of us. 
S’elp me Bob, if the old bloke ’adn’t guv us a 
fiver apiece — sixty-four rupees in the bazar! 
On Thursday ’e was in ’orspital recoverin’ 
from ’is sanguinary encounter with a gang of 
Pathans, an’ B Comp’ny was drinkin’ ’em- 
selves into Clink by squads. So there never 
was no Thursday p’raid. But the Kernul, 
when ’e ’eard of our galliant conduct, ’e sez, 
‘Hi know there’s been some devilry some- 
wheres,’ sez ’e, ‘but I can’t bring it ’ome to 
you three.’ ” 

“An’ my privit imprisshin is,” said Mul- 
vaney, getting off the bar and turning his 
glass upside down, “that, av they had known 
they wudn’t have brought ut home. ’Tis 
flyin’ in the face, firstly av Nature, secon’ av 
the Rig’lations, an’ third the will av Terence 
Mulvaney, to hold p’rades av Thursdays.” 

“Good, ma son!” said Learoyd; “but, 
young mon, what’s t’ notebook for?” 

“Let be,” said Mulvaney; “this time next 
month we’re in the Sherapis. ’Tis immortial 
fame the gentlem.an’s goin’ to give us. But 
kape it dhark till we’re out av the range av 
me little frind Bobs Bahadur.” 

And I have obeyed Mulvaney’s order. 


THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 


/ 






'I 



THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 


What did the colonel’s lady think? 

Nobody never knew. 

Somebody asked the sergeant’s wife 
An’ she told ’em true. 

When you git to a man in the case 
They’re like a row o’ pins, 

For the colonel’s lady an’ Judy O’Grady 
Are sisters under their skins. 

Barrack Room Ballad. 

A ll day I had followed at the heels of a 
pursuing army engaged on one of the 
finest battles that ever camp of exercise be- 
held. Thirty thousand troops had by the wis- 
dom of the Government of India been turned 
loose over a few thousand square miles of 
country to practice in peace what they would 
never attempt in war. Consequently cavalry 
charged unshaken infantry at the trot. In- 
fantry captured artillery by frontal attacks 
delivered in line of quarter columns, and 
mounted infantry skirmished up to the wheels 
of an armored train which carried nothing 
more deadly than a twenty-five pounder Arm- 

63 


64 


THE COURTING 


strong, two Nordenfeldts, and a few score 
volunteers all cased in three-eighths-inch 
boiler-plate. Yet it was a very lifelike camp. 
Operations did not cease at sundown; nobody 
knew the country and nobody spared man or 
horse. There was unending cavalry scouting 
and almost unending forced work over 
broken ground. The Army of the South had 
finally pierced the centre of the Army of the 
North, and was pouring through the gap hot- 
foot to capture a city of strategic importance. 
Its front extended fanwise, the sticks being 
represented by regiments strung out along 
the line of route backward to the divisional 
transport columns and all the lumber that 
trails behind an army on the move. On its 
right the broken left of the Army of the 
North was flying in mass, chased by the 
Southern horse and hammered by the South- 
ern guns till these had been pushed far beyond 
the limits of their last support. Then the fly- 
ing sat down to rest, while the elated com- 
mandant of the pursuing force telegraphed 
that he held all in check and observation. 

Unluckily he did not observe that three 
miles to his right flank a flying column of 
Northern horse with a detachment of Ghoork- 
has and British troops had been pushed round, 


OF DINAH SHADD 


65 


as fast as the failing light allowed, to cut 
across the entire rear of the Southern Army, 
to break, as it were, all the ribs of the fan 
where they converged by striking at the trans- 
port, reserve ammunition, and artillery sup- 
plies. Their instructions were to go in, avoid- 
ing the few scouts who might not have been 
drawn off by the pursuit, and create sufficient 
excitement to impress the Southern Army 
with the wisdom of guarding their own flank 
and rear before they captured cities. It was a 
pretty manoeuvre, neatly carried out. 

Speaking for the second division of the 
Southern Army, our first intimation of the 
attack was at twilight, when the artillery were 
laboring in deep sand, most of the escort were 
trying to help them out, and the main body of 
the infantry had gone on. A Noah’s Ark of 
elephants, camels, and the mixed menagerie 
of an Indian transport train bubbled and 
squealed behind the guns, when there appeared 
from nowhere in particular British infantry 
to the extent of three companies, who sprang 
to the heads of the gun-horses and brought all 
to a standstill amid oaths and cheers. 

‘^How’s that, umpire?” said the major com- 
manding the attack, and with one voice the 
drivers and limber gunners answered ‘‘Hout!” 
while the colonel of artillery sputtered. 


66 


THE COURTING 


‘‘All your scouts are charging our main 
body,” said the major. “Your flanks are un- 
protected for two miles. I think we’ve broken 
the back of this division. And listen, — there 
go the Ghoorkhas !” 

A weak fire broke from the rear-guard 
more than a mile away, and was answered by 
cheerful bowlings. The Ghoorkhas, who 
should have swung clear of the second divi- 
sion, had stepped on its tail in the dark, but 
drawing off hastened to reach the next line 
of attack, which lay almost parallel to us five 
or six miles away. 

Our column swayed and surged irresolutely, 
— three batteries, the divisional ammunition 
reserve, the baggage, and a section of the hos- 
pital and bearer corps. The commandant rue- 
fully promised to report himself “cut up” to 
the nearest umpire, and commending his cav- 
alry and all other cavalry to the special care of 
Eblis, toiled on to resume touch with the rest 
of the division. 

“We’ll bivouac here to-night,” said the 
major, “I have a notion that the Ghoorkhas 
will get caught. They may want us to re- 
form on. Stand easy till the transport gets 
away.” 

A hand caught my beast’s bridle and led 


OF DINAH SHADD 


67 


him out of the choking dust; a larger hand 
deftly canted me out of the saddle; and two 
of the hugest hands in the world received me 
sliding. Pleasant is the lot of the special cor- 
respondent who falls into such hands as those 
of Privates Mulvaney, Ortheris, and Learoyd. 

“An’ that’s all right,” said the Irishman, 
calmly. “We thought we’d find you some- 
wheres here by. Is there anything av yours in 
the transport? Orth’ris’ll fetch ut out.” 

Ortheris did “fetch ut out,” from under the 
trunk of an elephant, in the shape of a servant 
and an animal both laden with medical com- 
forts. The little man’s eyes sparkled. 

“If the brutil an’ licentious soldiery av these 
parts gets sight av the thruck,” said Mulvaney, 
making practiced investigation, “they’ll loot 
ev’rything. They’re bein’ fed on iron-filin’s 
an’ dog-biscuit these days, but glory’s no com- 
pensation for a belly-ache. Praise be, we’re 
here to protect you, sorr. Beer, sausage, 
bread (soft an’ that’s a cur’osity), soup in a 
tin, whisky by the smell av ut, an’ fowls! 
Mother av Moses, but ye take the field like a 
confectioner! ’Tis scand’lus.” 

“ ’Ere’s a orficer,” said Ortheris, signifi- 
cantly. “When the sergent’s done lushin’ the 
privit may clean the pot.” 


68 


THE COURTING 


I bundled several things into Mulvaney’s 
haversack before the major’s hand fell on my 
shoulder and he said, tenderly, “Requisitioned 
for the Queen’s service. Wolseley was quite 
wrong about special correspondents: they are 
the soldier’s best friends. Come and take pot- 
luck with us to-night.” 

And so it happened amid laughter and 
shoutings that my well-considered commissa- 
riat melted away to reappear later at the mess- 
table, which was a waterproof sheet spread on 
the ground. The flying column had taken 
three day’s rations with it, and there be few 
things nastier than government rations — es- 
pecially when government is experimenting 
with German toys. Erbsenwurst, tinned beef 
of surpassing tinniest, compressed vegetables, 
and meat biscuits may be nourishing, but what 
Thomas Atkins needs is bulk in his inside. 
The major, assisted by his brother cfflcers, 
purchased goats for the camp and so made the 
experiment of no effect. Long before the fa- 
tigue-party sent to collect brushwood had re- 
turned, the men were settled down by their va- 
lises, kettles and pots had appeared from the 
surrounding country and were dangling over 
fires as the kid and compressed vegetable bub- 
bled together; there rose a cheerful clinking 


OF DINAH SHADD 


69 


of mess-tins; outrageous demands for “a lit- 
tle more stuffin’ with that there liver-wing;” 
and gust on gust of chaff as pointed as a bay- 
onet and as delicate as a gun-butt. 

“The boys are in a good temper,” said the 
major. “They’ll be singing presently. Well, 
a night like this is enough to keep them 
happy.” 

Over our heads burned the wonderful In- 
dian stars, which are not all pricked in on one 
plane, but, preserving an orderly perspective, 
draw the eye through the velvet darkness of 
the void up to the barred doors of heaven it- 
self. The earth was a grey shadow more un- 
real than the sky. We could hear her breath- 
ing lightly in the pauses betwen the howling 
of the jackals, the movement of the wind in 
the tamarisks, and the fitful mutter of mus- 
ketry-fire leagues away to the left. A native 
woman from some unseen hut began to sing, 
the mail-train thundered past on its way to 
Delhi, and a roosting crow cawed drowsily. 
Then there was a belt-loosening silence about 
the fires, and the even breathing of the 
crowded earth took up the story. 

The men, full fed, turned to tobacco and 
song, — their officers with them. The subal- 
tern is happy who can win the approval of the 


70 


THE COURTING 


musical critics in his regiment, and is honored 
among the more intricate step-dancers. By 
him, as by him who plays cricket cleverly, 
Thomas Atkins will stand in time of need, 
when he will let a better officer go on alone. 
The ruined tombs of forgotten Mussulman 
saints heard the ballad of Agra Town, The 
Buffalo Battery, Marching to Kabul, The 
long, long Indian Day, The Place where the 
Punkah-coolie died, and that crashing chorus 
which announces. 

Youth’s daring spirit, manhood’s fire, 

Firm hand and eagle eye, 

Must he acquire who would aspire 
To see the grey boar die. 

To-day, of all those jovial thieves who ap- 
propriated my commissariat and lay and 
laughed round that waterproof sheet, not one 
remains. They went to camps that were not 
of exercise and battles without umpires. Bur- 
mah, the Soudan, and the frontier, — fever 
and fight, — took them in their time. 

I drifted across to the men’s fires in search 
of Mulvaney, whom I found strategically 
greasing his feet by the blaze. There is noth- 
ing particularly lovely in the sight of a pri- 
vate thus engaged after a long day’s march. 


OF DINAH SHADD 


71 


but when you reflect on the exact proportion 
of the “might, majesty, dominion, and power” 
of the British Empire which stands, on those 
feet you take an interest in the proceedings. 

“There’s a blister, bad luck to ut, on the 
heel,” said Mulvaney. “I can’t touch ut. 
Prick ut out, little man.” 

Ortheris took out his house-wife, eased the 
trouble with a needle, stabbed Mulvaney in 
the calf with the same weapon, and was 
swiftly kicked into the fire. 

“I’ve bruk the best av my toes over you, ye 
grinnin’ child av disruption,” said Mulvaney, 
sitting cross-legged and nursing his feet; then 
seeing me, “Oh, ut’s you, sorr! Be welkim, 
an’ take that maraudin’ scutt’s place. Jock, 
hold him down on the cindhers for a bit.” 

But Ortheris escaped and went elsewhere, 
as I took possession of the hollow he had 
scraped for himself and lined with his great- 
coat. Learoyd on the other side of the fire 
grinned affably and in a minute fell fast 
asleep. 

“There’s the height av politeness for you,” 
said Mulvaney, lighting his pipe with a flam- 
ing branch. “But Jock’s eaten half a box av 
your sardines at wan gulp, an’ I think the tin 
too. What’s the best wid you, sorr, an’ how 


72 


THE COURTING 


did you happen to be on the losin’ side this 
day whin we captured you?” 

‘‘The Army of the South is winning all 
along the line,” I said. 

“Then that line's the hangman’s rope, savin’ 
your presence. You’ll learn to-morrow how 
we rethreated to dhraw thim on before we 
made thim trouble, an’ that’s what a woman 
does. By the same token we’ll be attacked be- 
fore the dawnin’ an’ ut would be betther not 
to slip your boots. How do I know that? By 
the light av pure reason. " Here are three com- 
panies av us ever so far inside av the enemy’s 
flank an’ a crowd av roarin’, tarin’, squealin’ 
cavalry gone on just to turn out the whole 
hornet’s nest av them. Av course the enemy 
will pursue, by brigades like as not, an’ thin 
we’ll have to run for ut. Mark my words. I 
am av the opinion av Polonius whin he said, 
‘Don’t fight wid ivry scutt for the pure joy 
av fightin^, but if you do, knock the nose av 
him first an’ f requint.’ We ought to ha’ 
gone on an’ helped the Ghoorkhas.” 

“But what do you know about Polonius?” 
I demanded. This was a new side of Mul- 
vaney’s character. 

“All that Shakespeare iver wrote an’ a dale 
more that the gallery shouted,” said the man 


OF DINAH SHADD 


73 


of war, carefully lacing his boots. “Did I not 
tell you av Silver’s theatre in Dublin, whin I 
was younger than I am now an’ a patron av 
the drama ? Quid Silver wud never pay actor- 
man or woman their just dues, an’ by conse- 
quince his comp’nies was collapsible at the last 
minut. Thin the bhoys wud clamor to take a 
part, an’ oft as not ould Silver made them 
pay for the fun. Faith, I’ve seen Hamlut 
played wid a new black eye an’ the queen as 
full as a cornucopia. I remimber wanst Hogin 
that ’listed in the Black Tyrone an’ was shot 
in South Africa, he sejuced ould Silver into 
givin’ him Hamlut’s part instid av me that had 
a fine fancy for rhetoric in those days. Av 
course I wint into the gallery an’ began to fill 
the pit wid other people’s hats, an’ I passed 
the time av day to Hogin walkin’ through 
Denmark like a hamsarung mule wid a pall on 
his back. ‘Hamlut,’ sez I, ‘there’s a hole in 
your heel. Pull up your shtockin’s, Hamlut,’ 
sez I. ‘Hamlut, Hamlut, for the love av de- 
cincy dhrop that skull an’ pull up your shtock- 
in’s.’ The whole house begun to tell him 
that. He stopped his soliloquishms mid-be- 
tween. ‘My shtockin’s may be cornin’ down 
or they may not,’ sez he, screwin’ his eye into 
the gallery, for well he knew who I was. 


74 


THE COURTING 


'But afther this performince is over me an’ 
the Ghost ’ll trample the tripes out av you, 
Terence, wid your ass’s bray!’ An’ that’s 
how I come to know about Hamlut. Eyah! 
Those days, those days! Did you iver have 
onendin’ devilmint an’ nothin’ to pay for it in 
your life, sorr?” 

"Never, without having to pay,” I said. 

“That’s thrue! ’Tis mane whin you consid- 
her on ut ; but ut’s the same wid horse or fut. 
A headache if you dhrink, an’ a belly-ache if 
you eat too much, an’ k heart-ache to kape all 
down. Faith, the beast only gets the colic, an’ 
he’s the lucky man.” 

He dropped his head and stared into the 
fire, fingering his moustache the while. From 
the far side of the bi^^ouac the voice of Corbet- 
Nolan, senior subaltern of B Company, up- 
lifted itself in an ancient and much appreci- 
ated song of sentiment, the men moaning me- 
lodiously behind him. 

The north wind blew coldly, she dropped from that 
hour, 

My own little Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen, 
Kathleen, my Kathleen, Kathleen O’Moore! 

With forty-five O’s in the last word: even 
at that distance you might have cut the soft 
South Irish accent with a shovel. 

“For all we take we must pay, but the price 


OF DINAH SHADD 


75 

is cruel high,” murmured Mulvaney, when the 
chorus had ceased. 

“What’s the trouble?” I said gently, for I 
knew that he was a man of an inextinguish- 
able sorrow. 

“Hear now,” said he. “Ye know what I am 
now. I know what I mint to be at the begin- 
nin’ av my service. I’ve tould you time an’ 
again, an’ what I have not Dinah Shadd has. 
An’ what am I? Oh, Mary Mother av Hiven, 
an ould dhrunken, untrustable baste av a privit 
that has seen the reg’ment change out from 
colonel to drummer-boy, not wanst or twice, 
but scores av times! Ay, scores! An’ me not 
so near gettin’ promotion as in the first! An’ 
me livin’ on an’ kapin’ clear av clink, not by 
my own good conduck, but the kindness of 
some orf’cer-bhoy young enough to be son to 
me! Do I not know ut? Can I not tell whin 
I’m passed over at p’rad, tho’ I’m rockin’ full 
av liquor an’ rady to fall all in wan piece, such 
as even a suckin’ child might see, bekase, ‘Oh, 
’tis only ould Mulvaney!’ An’ whin I’m let off 
in ord’ly-room through some thrick of the 
tongue an’ a ready answer an’ the ould man’s 
mercy, is ut smilin’ I feel whin I fall away an’ 
go back to Dinah Shadd, thryin’ to carry ut all 
off as a joke? Not I! ’Tis hell to me, dumb 


76 


THE COURTING 


hell through ut all ; an’ next time whin the fit 
comes I will be as bad again. Good cause the 
reg’ment has to know me for the best soldier 
in ut. Better cause have I to know mesilf for 
the worst man. I’m only fit to tache the new 
drafts what I’ll niver learn mesilf; an’ I am 
sure, as tho’ I heard ut, that the minut wan 
av these pink-eyed recruities gets away from 
my ‘ Mind ye now,’ an’ ‘Listen to this, Jim 
bhoy,’ — sure I am that the sergint houlds me 
up to him for a warnin’. So I tache, as they 
say at musketry-instruction, by direct and rico- 
chet fire. Lord be good to me, for I have stud 
some throuble!” 

“Lie down and go to sleep,” said I, not being 
able to comfort or advise. “You’re the best 
man in the regiment, and, next to Ortheris, the 
biggest fool. Lie down and wait till we’re 
attacked. What force will they turn out? 
Guns, think you ? 

“Try that wid your lorrds an’ ladies, twistin’ 
an’ turnin’ the talk, tho’ you mint ut well. Ye 
cud say nothin’ to help me, an’ yet ye niver 
knew what cause I had to be what I am.” 

“Begin at the beginning and go on to the 
end,” I said, royally. “But rake up the fire 
a bit first.” 

I passed Ortheris’s bayonet for a poker. 


OF DINAH SHADD 


77 


“That shows how little we know what we 
do/' said Mulvaney, putting it aside. “Fire 
takes all the heart out av the steel, an’ the next 
time, may be, that our little man is fighting for 
his life his bradawl ’ll break, an’ so you’ll ha’ 
killed him, manin’ no more than to kape your- 
self warm. ’Tis a recruity’s thrick that. Pass 
the clanin’-rod, sorr.” 

I snuggled down abased ; and after an inter- 
val the voice of Mulvaney began. 

“Did I iver tell you how Dinah Shadd came 
to be wife av mine?” 

I dissembled a burning anxiety that I had 
felt for some months — ever since Dinah 
Shadd, the strong, the patient, and the infin- 
itely tender, had of her own good love and 
free will washed a shirt for me, moving in a 
barren land where washing was not. 

“I can’t remember,” I said, casually. “Was 
it before or after you made love to Annie Bra- 
gin, and got no satisfaction?” 

The story of Annie Bragin is written in 
another place. It is one of the many less re- 
spectable episodes in Mulvaney’s checkered ca- 
reer. 

“Before — before — long before, was that 
business av Annie Bragin an’ the corp’ril’s 
ghost. Niver woman was the worse for me 


78 


THE COURTING 


whin I had married Dinah. There’s a time for 
all things, an’ I know how to kape all things 
in place — barrin’ the dhrink, that kapes me 
in my place wid no hope av cornin’ to be 
aught else.” 

*^Begin at the beginning,” I insisted. “Mrs. 
Mulvaney told me that you married her when 
you were quartered in Krab Bokhar barracks.” 

“An’ the same is a cess-pit,” said Mulvaney, 
piously. “She spoke thrue, did Dinah. ’Twas 
this way. Talkin’ av that, have ye iver fallen 
in love sorr?” 

I preserved the silence of the damned. Mul- 
vaney continued — 

“Thin I will assume that ye have not. I did. 
In the days av my youth, as I have more than 
wanst tould you, I was a man that filled the 
eye an’ delighted the sowl av women. Niver 
man was hated as I have bin. Niver man 
was loved as I — no, not within half a day’s 
march av ut! For the first five years av my 
service, whin I was what I wud give my sowl 
to be now, I tuk whatever was within my reach 
an’ digested ut — an’ that’s more than most men 
can say. Dhrink I tuk, an’ ut did me no harm. 
By the Hollow av Hiven, I cud play wid four 
women at wanst, an’ kape them from findin’ 
out anythin’ about the other three, an’ smile 


OF DINAH SHADD 


79 


like a full-blown marigold through ut all. 
Dick Coulhan, av the battery well have down 
on us to-night, could drive his team no better 
than I mine, an’ I hild the worser cattle ! An’ 
so I lived, an’ so I was happy till afther that 
business wid Annie Bragin — she that turned 
me off as cool as a meat-safe, an’ taught me 
where I stud in the mind av an honest woman. 
’Twas no sweet dose to swallow. 

‘^Afther that I sickened awhile an’ tuk 
thought to my reg’mental work ; conceiting me- 
silf I wud study an’ be a sargint, an’ a major- 
gineral twinty minutes afther that. But on 
top av my ambitiousness there was an empty 
place in my sowl, an’ me own opinion av me- 
silf cud not fill ut. Sez I to mesilf, ^Terence, 
you’re a great man an’ the best set-up in the 
reg’mint. Go on an’ get promotion.’ Sez 
mesilf to me, What for?’ Sez I to mesilf, 
‘For the glory av ut !’ Sez mesilf to me, ‘Will 
that fill these two strong arrms av yours, 
Terence?’ ‘Go to the devil,’ sez I to mesilf. 
‘Go to the married lines,’ sez mesilf to me. 
‘ ’Tis the same thing,’ sez I to mesilf. ‘Av 
you’re the same man, ut is,’ said mesilf to me; 
an’ wid that I considhered on ut a long while. 
Did you iver feel that way, sorr?” 

I snored gently, knowing that if Mulvaney 


8o 


THE COURTING 


were uninterrupted he would go on. The 
clamor from the bivouac fires beat up to the 
stars, as the rival singers of the companies 
were pitted against each other. 

“So I felt that way an’ a bad time ut was. 
Wanst, bein’ a fool, I wint into the married 
lines more for the sake av spakin’ to our ould 
color-sergint Shadd than for any thruck wid 
women-folk. I was a corp’ril then — rejuced 
aftherward, but a corp’ril then. I’ve got a pho- 
tograph av mesilf to prove ut. ‘You’ll take a 
cup av tay wid us?’ sez Shadd. T wll that/ I 
sez, ‘tho’ tay is not my divarsion.’ 

“ ’Twud be better for you if ut were,’ sez 
ould Mother Shadd, an’ she had ought to 
know, for Shadd, in the ind av his service, 
dhrank bung-full each night. 

“Wid that I tuk off my gloves — there was 
pipe-clay in thim, so that they stud alone — an’ 
pulled up my chair, lookin’ round at the china 
ornaments an’ bits av things in the Shadds’ 
quarters. They were things that belonged to a 
man, an’ no camp-kit, here to-day an’ dishi- 
pated next. ‘You’re comfortable in this place, 
sergint,’ sez I. ‘ ’Tis the wife that did ut, 
boy,’ sez he, pointin’ the stem av his pipe to 
ould Mother Shadd, an’ she smacked the top 
av his bald head apon the compliment. ‘That 
manes you want money/ sez she. 


OF DINAH SHADD 


8i 


thin — an’ thin whin the kettle was to 
be filled, Dinah came in — my Dinah — her 
sleeves rowled up to the elbow an’ her hair in 
a winkin’ glory over her forehead, the big blue 
eyes beneath twinklin’ like stars on a frosty 
night, an’ the tread av her two feet lighter than 
waste-paper from the colonel’s basket in ord’ly- 
room whin ut’s emptied. Bein’ but a shlip av a 
girl she went pink at seein’ me, an’ I twisted me 
moustache an’ looked at a picture forninst the 
wall. Niver show a woman that ye care the 
snap av a finger for her, an’ begad she’ll come 
bleatin’ to your boot-heels !” 

‘‘I suppose that’s why you followed Annie 
Bragin till everybody in the married quarters 
laughed at you,” said I, remembering that un- 
hallowed wooing and casting off the disguise 
of drowsiness. 

‘‘I’m layin’ down the gin’ral theory av the 
attack,” said Mulvaney, driving his boot into 
the dying fire. “If you read the Soldier's 
Pocket Book, which niver any soldier reads, 
you’ll see that there are exceptions. Whin 
Dinah was out av the door (an’ ’twas as tho’ 
the sunlight had shut too) — ‘Mother av Hiven, 
sergint,’ sez I, ‘but is that your daughter?’ — 
‘I’ve believed that way these eighteen years,’ 
sez ould Shadd, his eyes twinklin’; ‘But Mrs. 


82 


THE COURTING 


Shadd has her own opinion, like ivVy woman/ 
— ' ’Tis wid yours this time, for a mericle,’ sez 
Mother Shadd. Thin why in the name av for- 
tune did I niver see her before?’ sez L ‘Be- 
kaze you’ve been thrapesin’ round wid the mar- 
ried women these three years past. She was a 
bit av a child till last year, an’ she shot up wid 
the spring,’ sez ould Mother Shadd. ‘I’ll 
thrapese no more,’ sez I. ‘D’you mane that?’ 
sez ould Mother Shadd, lookin’ at me side- 
ways like a hen looks at a hawk whin the 
chickens are runnin’ free. Try me, an’ tell,’ 
sez I. Wid that I pulled on my gloves, dhrank 
off the tay, an’ went out av the house as stiff 
as at gin’ral p’rade, for well I knew that Dinah 
Shadd’s eyes were in the small av my back out 
av the scullery window. Faith! that was the 
only time I mourned I was not a cav’lry man 
for the pride av the spurs ter jingle. 

‘T wint out to think, an' I did a powerful lot 
av thinkin’, but ut all came round to that shlip 
av a girl in the dotted blue dhress, wid the blue 
eyes an’ the sparkil in them. Thin I kept off 
canteen, an’ I kept to the married quarthers, or 
near by, on the chanst av meetin’ Dinah. Did 
I meet her? Oh, my time past, did I not; wid 
a lump in my throat as big as my valise an’ my 
heart goin’ like a farrier’s forge on a Saturday 


OF DINAH SHADD 


83 


morning? 'Twas ‘Good day to ye, Miss 
Dinah,’ an’ ‘Good day t’you, corp’ril,’ for a 
week or two, and divil a bit further could I get 
bekaze av the respect I had to that girl that I 
cud ha’ broken betune finger an’ thumb.” 

Here I giggled as I recalled the gigantic fig- 
ure of Dinah Shadd when she handed me my 
shirt. 

“Ye may laugh,” grunted Mulvaney. “But 
I’m speakin’ the truth’, an’ ’tis you that are in 
fault. Dinah was a girl that wud ha’ taken 
the imperiousness out av the Duchess av Clon- 
mel in those days. Flower hand, foot av shod 
air, an’ the eyes av the livin’ mornin’ she had 
that is my wife to-day — ould Dinah, and niver 
aught else than Dinah Shadd to me. 

“ ’Twas after three weeks standin’ off an’ 
on, an’ niver makin’ headway excipt through 
the eyes, that a little drummer boy grinned in 
me face whin I had admonished him wid the 
buckle av my belt for riotin’ all over the place. 
‘An’ I’m not the only wan that doesn’t kape to 
barricks,’ sez he. I tuk him by the scruff av his 
neck, — my heart was hung on a hair-thrigger 
those days, you will onderstand — an’ ‘Out wid 
ut,’ sez I, ‘or I’ll lave no bone av you unbreak- 
able.’ — ‘Speak to Dempsey,’ sez he howlin’. 
‘Dempsey which ?’ sez I, ‘ye unwashed limb av 


84 


THE COURTING 


Satan/ — ‘Av the Bob-tailed Dhragoons/ sez 
he. ‘He’s seen her home from her aunt’s house 
in the civil lines four times this fortnight’ — 
‘Child!’ sez I, dhroppin’ him, ‘your tongue’s 
stronger than your body. Go to your quarters. 
I'm sorry I dhressed you down.’ 

“At that I went four ways to wanst huntin’ 
Dempsey. I was mad to think that wid all my 
airs among women I shud ha’ been chated by a 
basin-faced fool av a cav’lryman not fit to trust 
on a trunk. Presintly I found him in our lines 
— the Bobtails was quartered next us — an’ a 
tallowy, topheavy son av a she-mule he was 
wid his big brass spurs an’ his plastrons on his 
epigastrons an’ all. But he niver flinched a 
hair. 

“ ‘A word wid you, Dempsey,’ sez I. 
‘You’ve walked wid Dinah Shadd four times 
this fortnight gone.’ 

“ ‘What’s that to you?’ sez he. ‘I’ll walk 
forty times more, an’ forty on top av that, ye 
shovel-futted clod-breakin’ infantry lance- 
corp’ril.’ 

“Before I cud gyard he had his gloved fist 
home on my cheek an’ down I went full- 
sprawl. ‘Will that content you?’ sez he, 
blowin’ on his knuckles for all the world like a 
Scots Greys orf’cer. ‘Content!’ sez I. ‘For 


OF DINAH SHADD 


85 


your own sake, man, take off your spurs, peel 
your jackut, an’ onglove. ’Tis the beginnin’ 
av the overture; stand up!’ 

“He stud all he know, but he niver peeled his 
jacket, an’ his shoulders had no fair play. I was 
fightin’ for Dinah Shadd an’ that cut on my 
cheek. What hope had he fornist me? ‘Stand 
up,’ sez I, time an’ again, whin he was begin- 
nin’ to quarter the ground an’ gyard high an’ 
go large. ‘This isn’t ridin’-school,’ I sez. ‘O 
man, stand up an’ let me get in at ye.’ But 
whin I saw he wud be runnin’ about, I grup 
his shtock in my left an’ his waist-belt in my 
right an’ swung him clear to my right front, 
head undher, he hammerin’ my nose till the 
wind was knocked out av him on the bare 
ground. ‘Stand up,’ sez I, ‘or I’ll kick your 
head into your chest!’ and I wud ha’ done ut 
too, so ragin’ mad I was. 

“ ‘My collar-bone’s bruk,’ sez he. ‘Help me 
back to lines. I’ll walk wid her no more.’ So 
I helped him back.” 

“And was his collar-bone broken?” I asked, 
for I fancied that only Learoyd could neatly 
accomplish that terrible throw. 

“He pitched on his left shoulder point. Ut 
was. Next day the news was in both barracks, 
an’ whin I met Dinah Shadd wid a cheek on me 


86 


THE COURTING 


like all the reg’mintal tailor’s samples there 
was no 'Good mornin’, corp’ril,’ or aught else. 
'An’ what have I done, Miss Shadd,’ sez I, 
very bould, plantin’ mesilf forninst her, 'that 
ye should not pass the time of day ?’ 

" 'Ye’ve half-killed rough-rider Dempsey,’ 
sez she, her dear blue eyes fillin’ up. 

" 'May be,’ sez I. 'Was he a friend av yours 
that saw ye home four times in the fortnight?’ 

" 'Yes/ sez she, but her mouth was down at 
the corners. 'An’ — an’ what’s that to you?’ 
she sez. 

" 'Ask Dempsey,’ sez I, purtendin’ to go 
away. 

" 'Did you fight for me then, you silly man ?’ 
she sez, tho’ she knew ut all along. 

" 'Who else ?’ sez I, an’ I tuk wan pace to the 
front. 

" 'I wasn’t worth ut,’ sez she, fingerin’ in her 
apron. 

" 'That’s for me to say,’ sez I. 'Shall I say 
ut?’ 

" 'Yes,’ sez she, in a saint’s whisper, an’ at 
that I explained mesilf ; and she tould me what 
ivry man that is a man, an’ many that is a 
woman, hears wanst in his life. 

" 'But what made ye cry at startin’, Dinah, 
darlin’?’ sez 1. 


OF DINAH SHADD 


87 


‘Your — your bloody cheek,’ sez she, duck- 
in’ her little head down on my sash (I was on 
duty for the day) an’ whimperin’ like a sor- 
rowful angil. 

“Now a man cud take that two ways. I tuk 
ut as pleased me best an’ my first kiss wid ut. 
Mother av Innocence! but I kissed her on the 
tip av the nose and undher the eye; an’ a girl 
that lets a kiss come tumble-ways like that has 
never been kissed before. Take note av that, 
sorr. Thin we wint hand in hand to ould 
Mother Shadd like two little childher, an’ she 
said ’twas no bad thing, an’ ould Shadd nodded 
behind his pipe an’ Dinah ran away to her own 
room. That day I throd on rollin’ clouds. All 
earth was too small to hould me. Begad, I 
cud ha’ hiked the sun out av the sky for a live 
coal to my pipe, so magnificent I was. But I 
tuk recruities at squad-drill instid, an’ began 
wid general battalion advance whin I shud ha’ 
been balance-steppin’ them. Eyah! that day! 
that day!” 

A very long pause. “Well ?” said I. 

“ ’Twas all wrong,” said Mulvaney, with an 
enormous sigh. “An’ I know that ev’ry bit av 
ut was my own foolishness. That night I tuk 
maybe the half av three pints — not enough to 
turn the hair of a man in his natural senses. 


88 


THE COURTING 


But I was more than half drunk wid pure joy, 
an’ that canteen beer was so much whisky to 
me. I can’t tell how it came about, but hekaze 
I had no thought for anywan except Dinah, he- 
kaze I hadn’t slipped her little white arms from 
my neck five minutes, hekaze the breath of her 
kiss was not gone from my mouth, I must go 
through the married lines on my way to quar- 
ters an’ I must stay talkin’ to a red-headed 
Mullingar heifer av a girl, Judy Sheehy, that 
was daughter to Mother Sheehy, the wife of 
Nick Sheehy, the canteen-sergint — the Black 
Curse av Shielygh be on the whole brood that 
are above groun’ this day! 

^An’ what are ye houldin’ your head that 
high for, corp’ril?’ sez Judy. 'Come in an’ 
thry a cup av tay,’ she sez, standin’ in the door- 
way. Bein’ an ontrustable fool, an’ thinkin’ av 
anything but tay, I wint. 

" 'Mother’s at canteen,’ sez Judy, smoothin’ 
the hair av hers that was like red snakes, an’ 
lookin’ at me corner-ways out av her green 
cats’ eyes. 'Ye will not mind, corp’ril?’ 

" 'I can endure,’ sez I ; ould Mother Sheehy 
bein’ no divarsion av mine, nor her daughter 
too. Judy fetched the tea things an’ put thim 
on the table, leanin’ over me very close to get 
thim square. I dhrew back, thinkin’ av Dinah. 


OF DINAH SHADD 89 

‘Is ut afraid you are av a girl alone?’ sez 
Judy. 

“‘No,’ sez I. ‘Why should I be?’ 

“ ‘That rests wid the girl,’ sez Judy, 
dhrawin’ her chair next to mine. 

“ ‘Thin there let ut rest,’ sez I ; an’ thinkin’ 
I’d been a trifle onpolite, I sez, ‘The tay’s not 
quite sweet enough for my taste. Put your lit- 
tle finger in the cup, Judy. ’Twill make ut 
necthar.’ 

“ ‘What’s necthar?’ sez she. 

“ ‘Somethin’ very swet,’ sez I ; an’ for the 
sinful life av me I cud not help lookin’ at her 
out av the corner av my eye, as I was used to 
look at a woman. 

“ ‘Go on wid ye, corp’ril,’ sez she. ‘You’re a 
flirrt.’ 

“ ‘On me sowl I’m not,’ sez I. 

“ ‘Then you’re a cruel handsome man, an’ 
that’s worse,’ sez she, heaving big sighs an’ 
lookin’ crossways. 

“ ‘You know your own mind,’ sez I. 

“ ‘ ’Twud be better for me if I did not,’ she 
sez. 

“ ‘There’s a dale to be said on both sides av 
that,’ sez I, unthinkin’. 

“ ‘Say your own part av ut, then, Terence, 
darlin’/ sez she; ‘for begad I’m thinkin’ I’ve 


go 


THE COURTING 


said to much or too little for an honest girl/ 
an’ wid that she put her arms round my neck 
an’ kissed me. 

‘There’s no more to be said afther that,’ 
sez I, kissin’ her back again — Oh the mane 
scutt that I was, my head ringin’ wid Dinah 
Shadd! How does ut come about, sorr, that 
when a man has put the comether on wan 
woman, he’s sure bound to put it on another? 
’Tis the same thing at musketry. Wan day ivry 
shot goes wide or into the bank, an’ the next, 
lay high lay low, sight or snap, ye can’t get off 
the bull’s-eye for ten shots runnin’.” 

“That only happens to a man who has had a 
good deal of experience. He does it without 
thinking,” I replied. 

“Thankin’ you for the complimint, sorr, ut 
may be so. But I’m doubtful whether you mint 
ut for a complimint. Hear now ; I sat there wid 
Judy on my knee tellin’ me all manner av non- 
sinse an’ only sayin’ ‘yes’ an’ ‘no,’ when I’d 
much better ha’ kept tongue betune teeth. An’ 
that was not an hour afther I had left Dinah! 
What I was thinkin’ av I cannot say. Pres- 
intly, quiet as a cat, ould Mother Sheehy came 
in velvet-dhrunk. She had her daughter’s red 
hair, but ’twas bald in patches, an’ I cud see in 
her wicked ould face, clear as lightnin’, what 


OF DINAH SHADD 


91 


Judy wud be twenty years to come. I was for 
jumpin’ up, but Judy niver moved. 

‘Terence has promust, mother,’ sez she, an’ 
the could sweat bruk out all over me. Ould 
Mother Sheehy sat down of a heap an’ began 
playin’ wid the cups. ‘Thin you’re a well- 
matched pair,’ she sez, very thick. ‘For he’s 
the biggest rogue that iver spoiled the queen’s 
shoe-leather,’ an’ — 

“ ‘I’m off, Judy,’ sez I. ‘Ye should not talk 
nonsinse to your mother. Get her to bed, girl.’ 

“‘Nonsinse!’ sez the ould woman, prickin’ 
up her ears like a cat an’ grippin’ the table- 
edge. ‘ ’Twill be the most nonsinsical non- 
sinse for you, ye grinnin’ badger, if nonsinse 
’tis. Git clear, you. I’m goin’ to bed.’ 

“I ran out into the dhark, my head in a stew 
an’ my heart sick, but I had sinse enough to see 
that I’d brought ut all on mysilf. ‘ ’Tis this to 
pass the time av day to a panjandhrum av hell- 
cats,’ sez I. ‘What I’ve said, an’ what I’ve not 
said do not matther. Judy an’ her dam will 
hould me for a promust man, an’ Dinah will 
give me the go, an’ I desarve ut. I will go an’ 
get dhrunk,’ sez I, ‘an’ forget about ut, for ’tis 
plain I’m not a marrin’ man.’ 

“On my way to canteen I ran against Las- 
celles, color-sergeant that was av E Comp’ny, 


92 


THE COURTING 


a hard, hard man, wid a torment av a wife. 
‘YouVe the head av a drowned man on your 
shoulders,’ sez he; 'an’ you’re goin’ where 
you’ll get a worse wan. Come back,’ sez he. 
'Let me go,’ sez I. 'I’ve thrown my luck over 
the wall wid my own hand !’ — 'Then that’s not 
the way to get ut back again,’ sez he. 'Have 
out wid your throuble, ye fool-bhoy.’ An’ I 
tould him how the matther was. 

"He sucked in his lower lip. "You’ve been 
thrapped,’ sez he. 'Ju Sheehy wud be the bet- 
ther for a man’s namelo hers as soon as can. 
An’ ye thought ye’d put the comether on her, 
— ^that’s the natural vanity of the baste. Ter- 
ence, you’re a big born fool, but you’re not bad 
enough to marry into that comp’ny. If you said 
anythin’, an’ for all your protestations I’m sure 
ye did — or did not, which is worse, — eat ut all 
— lie like the father of all lies, but come out av 
ut free av Judy. Do I not know what ut is to 
marry a woman that was the very spit an’ im- 
age av Judy whin she was young? I’m gettin’ 
old, an’ I’ve larnt patience, but you, Terence, 
you’d raise your hand on Judy an’ kill her in a 
year. Never mind if Dinah gives you the go, 
you’ve desarved ut; never mind if the whole 
reg’mint laughs you all day. Get shut av Judy 
an’ her mother. They can’t dhrag you to 


OF DINAH SHADD 


93 


church, but if they do, they’ll dhrag you to 
hell. Go back to your quarters and lie down,’ 
sez he. Thin over his shoulder, ‘You must ha’ 
done with thim.’ 

“Next day I wint to see Dinah, but there 
was no tucker in me as I walked. I knew the 
throuble wud come soon enough widout any 
handlin’ av mine, an’ dreaded ut sore. 

“I heard Judy callin’ me, but I hild straight 
on to the Shadds’ quarthers, an’ Dinah wud 
ha’ kissed me but I put her back. 

“ ‘Whin all’s said, darlin’,’ sez I, ‘you can 
give ut me if ye will, tho’ I misdoubt ’twill be 
so easy to come by then.’ 

“I had scarce begun to put the explanation 
into shape before Judy an’ her mother came to 
the door. I think there was a veranda, but I’m 
forgettin’. 

“ ‘Will ye not step in ?’ sez Dinah, pretty and 
polite, though the Shadds had no dealin’s with 
the Sheehys. Old Mother Shadd looked up 
quick, an’ she was the fust to see the throuble ; 
for Dinah was her daughter. 

“ ‘I’m pressed for time to-day,’ sez Judy as 
bould as brass ; ‘an’ I’ve only come for Terence. 
— my promust man. *Tis strange to find him 
here the day afther the day.’ 

“Dinah looked at me as though I had hit her, 
an’ I answered straight. 


94 


THE COURTING 


‘‘ There was some nonsinse last night at the 
Sheehys’ quarthers, an' Judy’s carry in’ on the 
joke, darlin’,’ sez 1. 

‘At the Sheehys’ quarthers ?’ sez Dinah 
very slow, an’ Judy cut in wid: ‘He was there 
from nine till ten, Dinah Shadd, an’ the bet- 
ther half av that time I was sittin’ on his knee, 
Dinah Shadd. Ye may look an’ ye may look 
an’ ye may look me up an’ down, but ye won’t 
look away that Terence is my promust man. 
Terence, darlin’, ’tis time for us to be cornin’ 
home.’ 

“Dinah Shadd niver said a word to Judy. 
‘Ye left me at half-past eight,’ she sez to me, 
‘an’ I niver thought that ye’d leave me for 
Judy, — promises or no promises. Go back wid 
her, you that have to be fetched by a girl 1 Fm 
done with you,’ sez she, and she ran into her 
own room, her mother followin’. So I was 
alone wid those two women and at liberty to 
spake my sentiments. 

“ ‘Judy Sheehy,’ sez I, ‘if you made a fool 
av me betune the lights you shall not do ut in 
the day. I niver promised you words or lines.’ 

‘You lie,’ sez ould Mother Sheehy, ‘an’ 
may ut choke you where you stand !’ She was 
far gone in dhrink. 

“ ‘An’ tho’ ut choked me where I stud I’d 


OF DINAH SHADD 


95 


not change/ sez I. *Go home, Judy. I take 
shame for a decent girl like you dhragin* your 
mother out bareheaded on this errand. Hear 
now, and have ut -for an answer. I gave my 
word to Dinah Shadd yesterday, an^ more 
blame to me, I was wid you last night talkin’ 
nonsinse, but nothin’ more. You’ve chosen to 
thry to hould me on ut. I will not be held 
thereby for anything in the world. Is that 
enough ?’ 

‘'Judy wint pink all over. ‘An’ I wish you 
joy av the perjury,’ sezs she, duckin’ a curtsey. 
‘You’ve lost a woman that would ha’ wore her 
hand to the bone for your pleasure ; an’ ’deed, 

Terence, ye were not thrapped ’ Las- 

celles must ha’ spoken plain to her. ‘I am such 
as Dinah is — ’deed I am! Ye’ve lost a fool av 
a girl that’ll niver look at you again, an’ ye’ve 
lost what he niver had, — your common hon- 
esty. ‘If you manage your men as you man- 
age your love-makin’, small wondher they 
call you the worst corp’ril in the comp’ny. 
Come away, mother,’ sez she. 

“But divil a fut would the ould woman 
budge ! ‘D’you hould by that ?’ sez she, peerin’ 
up under her thick grey eyebrows. 

“ ‘Ay, an’ wud,’ sez I, ‘tho’ Dinah give me 
the go twinty times. I’ll have no thruck witn 


96 


THE COURTING 


you or yours/ sez 1. Take your child away, 
ye shameless woman.’ 

“ ‘An’ am I shameless ?’ sez she, bringin’ her 
hands up above her head. Thin what are you, 
ye lyin’, schamin’, weak-kneed, dhirty-souled 
son av a sutler ? Am I shameless ? Who put the 
open shame on me an’ my child that we shud 
go beggin’ through the lines in the broad day- 
light for the broken word of a man? Double 
portion of my shame be on you, Terence Mul- 
vaney, that think yourself so strong! By Mary 
and the saints, by blood and water an’ by ivry 
sorrow that came into the world since the be- 
ginnin’, the black blight fall on you and yours, 
so that you may niver be free from pain for 
another when ut’s not your own! May your 
heart bleed in your breast drop by drop wid all 
your friends laughin’ at the Weedin’! Strong 
you think yourself? May your strength be a 
curse to you to dhrive you into the divil’s 
hands against your own will! Clear-eyed you 
are ? May your eyes see clear evry step av the 
dark path you take till the hot cindhers av hell 
put thim out! May the ragin’ dry thirst in 
my own ould bones go to you that you shall 
niver pass bottle full nor glass empty. God 
preserve the light av your onderstandin’ to 
you, my jewel av a bhoy, that ye may niver 


OF DINAH SHADD 


97 


forg-et what you mint to be an’ do, whin you’re 
wallowin’ in the muck. May ye see the bet- 
ther and follow the worse as long as there’s 
breath in your body ; an’ may ye die quick in a 
strange land, watchin’ your death before ut 
takes you, an’ onable to stir hand or footl’ 

“I heard a scufflin’ in the room behind, and 
thin Dinah Shadd’s hand dhropped into mine 
like a rose-leaf into a muddy road. 

‘‘ ‘The half av that I’ll take,’ sez she, ‘an’ 
more too if I can. Go home, ye silly talkin’ 
woman, — go home an’ confess.’ 

“ ‘Come away ! Come away ! sez Judy, 
pullin’ her mother by the shawl. ’Twas none 
av Terence’s fault. For the love av Mary stop 
the talkin’ !’ 

“ ‘An’ you !’ said ould Mother Sheehy, 
spinnin’ round forninst Dinah. ‘Will ye take 
the half av that man’s load? Stand off from 
him, Dinah Shadd, before he takes you down 
too — ^you that look to be a quarther-master- 
sergeant’s wife in five years. You look too high, 
child. You shall wash for the quarther-mas- 
ter-sergeant, whin he plases to give you the job 
out av charity; but a privit’s wife you shall be 
to the end, an’ evry sorow of a privit’s wife 
you shall know, and nivir a joy but wan, that 
shall go from you like the running tide from z, 


98 


THE COURTING 


rock. The pain av bearin’ you shall know, but 
niver the pleasure av giving the breast ; an’ you 
shall put away a man-child into the common 
ground wid never a priest to say a prayer over 
him, an’ on that man-child ye shall think ivry 
day av your life. Think long, Dinah Shadd, 
for you’ll niver have another tho’ you pray till 
your knees are Weedin’. The mothers av chil- 
der shall mock you behind your back when 
you’re wringing over the washtub. You shall 
know what ut is to help a dhrunken husband 
home an’ see him go to the gyard-room. Will 
that plase you, Dinah Shadd, that won’t be 
seen talkin’ to my daughter? You shall talk 
to worse than Judy before all’s over. The ser- 
gints’ wives shall look down on you contempt- 
uous, daughter av a sergint, an’ you shall cover 
ut all up wid a smiling face when your heart’s 
burstin’. Stand off av him, Dinah Shadd, for 
I’ve put the Black Curse of Shielygh upon him 
an’ his own mouth shall make ut good.’ 

“She pitched forward on her head an’ began 
foamin’ at the mouth. Dinah Shadd ran out 
wid water, an’ Judy dhragged the ould woman 
into the veranda till she sat up. 

“ T’m old an’ forlore,’ she sez, thremblin’ 
an’ cryin’, ‘and ’tis like I say a dale more than 
I mane.’ 


OF DINAH SHADD 


99 


“ *When you’re able to walk, — go,’ says ould 
Mother Shadd. This house has no place for 
the likes av you that have cursed my daughter.’ 

‘Eyah !’ said the ould woman. ^Hard 
words break no bones, an’ Dinah Shadd’ll keep 
the love av her husband till my bones are green 
corn. Judy, darlin’, I misremember what I 
came here for. Can you lend us the bottom av 
a taycup av tay, Mrs. Shadd ?’ 

‘‘But Judy dhragged her off cryin’ as tho’ 
her heart wud break. An’ Dinah Shadd an’ I, 
in ten minutes we had forgot ut all.” 

“Then why do you remember it now?” 
said I. 

“Is ut like I’d forget? Ivry word that 
wicked ould woman spoke fell thrue in my life 
aftherward, an’ I cud ha’ stud ut all — stud ut 
all — excipt when my little Shadd was born. 
That was on the line av march three months 
afther the regiment was taken with cholera. 
We were betune Umballa an Kalga thin, an’ I 
was on picket. Whin I came off duty the 
women showed me the child, an’ ut turned out 
uts side an’ died as I looked. We buried him 
by the road, an’ Father Victor was a day’s 
march behind wid the heavy baggage, so 
the comp’ny captain read a prayer. An’ since 
then I’ve been a childless man, an’ all else that 


lOO 


THE COURTING 


ould Mother Sheehy put upon me an’ Dinah 
Shadd. What do you think, sorr?” 

I thought a good deal, but it seemed better 
then to reach out for Mulvaney’s hand. The 
demonstration nearly cost me the use of three 
fingers. Whatever he knows of his weaknesses, 
Mulvaney is entirely ignorant of his strength. 

“But what do you think?” he repeated, as I 
was straightening out the crushed fingers. 

My reply was drowned in yells and outcries 
from the next fire, where ten men were shout- 
ing for “Orth’ris,” “Privit Orth’ris,” “Mistah 
Or — ther— ris!” “Deah boy,” “Cap’n Orth’- 
ris,” “Field-Marshal Orth’ris,” “Stanley, you 
pen’north o’ pop, come ’ere to your own com- 
p’ny!” And the cockney, who had been de- 
lighting another audience with recondite and 
Rabelaisian yarns, was shot down among his 
admirers by the major force. 

“You’ve crumpled my dress-shirt ’orrid,” 
said he, “an’ I shan’t sing no more to this ’ere 
bloomin’ drawin’-room.” 

Learoyd, roused by the confusion, uncoiled 
himself, crept behind Ortheris, and slung him 
aloft on his shoulders. 

“Sing, ye bloomin’ hummin’ bird !” said he, 
and Ortheris, beating time on Learoyd’s skull, 
delivered himself, in the raucous voice of the 
Ratcliffe Highway, of this songs>— ^ 


OF DINAH SHADD loi 


My girl she give me the go onst, 

When I was a London lad, 

An’ I went on the drink for a fortnight, 

An’ then I went to the bad. 
iThe Queen she give me a shillin’ 

To fight for ’er over the seas; 

But Guv’ment built me a fever-trap, 

An’ Injia give me disease. 

Chorus. 

Ho! don’t you ’eed what a girl says. 

An’ don’t you go for the beer; 

But I was an ass when I was at grass. 

An’ that is why I’m here. 

I fired a shot at a Afghan, 

The beggar ’e fired again. 

An’ I lay on my bed with a ’ole in my ’ed 
An’ missed the next campaign I 
I up with my gun at a Burman 
Who carried a bloomin’ dah. 

But the cartridge stuck and the bay’nit bruk, 
An’ all I got was the scar. 

Chorus. 

Ho ! don’t you aim at a Afghan 
When you stand on the sky-line clear; 

An’ don’t you go for a Burman 
If none o’ your friends is near. 

I served my time for a corp’ral. 

An’ wetted my stripes with pop. 

For I went on the bend with a intimate friend. 
An’ finished the night in the “shop.” 

I served my time for a sergeant; 

The colonel ’e sez “No! 

The most you’ll see is a full C. B.”^ 

"" An’ . . . very next night ’twas so. 


* Confined to barracks. 


102 


THE COURTING 


Chorus. 

Ho ! don’t you go for a corp’ral 
Unless your ’ed is clear; 

But I was an ass when I was at grass, 

An’ that is why I’m ’ere. 

I’ve tasted the luck o’ the army 
In barrack an’ camp an’ clink, 

An’ I lost my tip through the bloomin’ trip 
Along o’ the women an’ drink, 

I’m down at the heel o’ my service 
An’ when I am laid on the shelf, 

My very wust friend from beginning to end, 

By the blood of a mouse was myself! 

Chorus. 

Ho ! don’t you ’eed what a girl says. 

An’ don’t you go for the beer: 

But I was an ass when I was at grass. 

An’ that is why I’m ’ere. 

‘‘Ay, listen to our little man now, singin’ 
an’ shoutin’ as tho’ trouble had niver touched 
him. D’ you remember when he went mad 
with the homesickness?” said Mulvaney, re- 
calling a never-to-be-forgotten season when 
Ortheris waded through the deep waters of af- 
fliction and behaved abominably. “But he’s 
talkin’ bitter truth, though. Eyah! 


‘My very worst frind from beginnin’ to ind 
By the blood av a mouse was mesilfl” 


OF DINAH SHADD 


103 


When I woke I saw Mulvaney, the night- 
dew gemming his moustache, leaning on his 
rifle at picket, lonely as Prometheus on his 
rock, with I know not what vultures tearing 
his liver. 









ON GREENHOW HILE 


T CV, 




ON GREENHOW HILE 


To Love’s low voice she lent a careless ear; 

Her hand within his rosy fingers lay, 

A chilling weight She would not turn or hear; 
But with averted face went on her way. 

But when pale Death, all featureless and grim, 

Lifted his bony hand, and beckoning 

Held out his cypress-wreath, she followed him, 

And Love was left forlorn and wondering. 

That she who for his bidding would not stay. 

At Death’s first whisper rose and went away. 

Rivals. 

Ahmed Din! Shahz Vila ahoo! 

Bahadur Khan, where are you ? 
Come out of the tents, as I have done, and 
fight against the English. Don’t kill your own 
kin ! Come out to me !” 

The deserter from a native corps was 
crawling round the outskirts of the camp, fir- 
ing at intervals, and shouting invitations to his 
old comrades. Misled by the rain and the 
darkness, he came to the English wing of the 
camp, and with his yelping and rifle-practice 
disturbed the men. They had been making 
roads all day, and were tired. 

107 


io8 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


Ortheris was sleeping at Learoyd’s feet. 
“Wot’s all that?” he said thickly. Learoyd 
snored, and a Snider bullet ripped its way 
through the tent wall. The men swore. ‘Tt’s 
that bloomin’ deserter from the Auranga- 
badis,” said Ortheris. “Git up, some one, an’ 
tell ’im ’e’s come to the wrong shop.” 

“Go to sleep, little man,'’ said Mulvaney, 
who was steaming nearest the door. “I can’t 
arise and expaytiate with him. ’Tis rainin’ en- 
trenchin’ tools outside.” 

“ ’Tain’t because you bloomin’ can’t. It’s 
’cause you bloomin’ won’t, ye long, limp, 
lousy, lazy beggar, you. ’Ark to ’im ’owlin’ !” 

“Wot’s the good of argifying? Put a bul- 
let into the swine! ’E’s keepin’ us awake!” 
said another voice. 

A subaltern shouted angrily, and a dripping 
sentry whined from the darkness — 

“ ’Tain’t no good, sir. I can’t see ’im. ’E’s 
’idin’ somewhere down ’ill.” 

Ortheris tumbled out of his blanket. “Shall 
I try to get ’im, sir?” said he. 

“No,” was the answer. “Lie down. I 
won’t have the whole camp shooting all round 
the clock. Tell him to go and pot his friends.” 

Ortheris considered for a moment. Then, 
putting his head under the tent wall, he called, 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


109 


as a ’bus conductor calls in a block, '' ’Igher 
up, there! Igher up!” 

The men laughed, and the laughter was car- 
ried down wind to the deserter, who, hearing 
that he had made a mistake, went off to worry 
his own regiment half a mile away. He was 
received with shots; the Aurangabadis were 
very angry with him for disgracing their col- 
ors. 

‘‘An’ that’s all right,” said Ortheris, with- 
drawing his head as he heard the hiccough of 
the Sniders in the distance. “S’elp me Gawd, 
tho’, that man’s not fit to live — messin’ with 
my beauty-sleep this way.” 

“Go out and shoot him in the morning, 
then,” said the subaltern incautiously. “Si- 
lence in the tents now. Get your rest, men.” 

Ortheris lay down with a happy little sigh, 
and in two minutes there was no sound except 
the rain on the canvas and the all-embracing 
and elemental snoring of Learoyd. 

The camp lay on the bare ridge of the Him- 
alayas, and for a week had been waiting for a 
flying column to make connection. The 
nightly rounds of the deserter and his friends 
had become a nuisance. 

In the morning the men dried themselves in 
hot sunshine and cleaned their grimy accou- 


no 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


trements. The native regiment was to take its 
turn of road-making that day while the Old 
Regiment loafed, 

“I’m goin' to lay for a shot at that man,” 
said Ortheris, when he had finished washing 
out his rifle. “ ’E comes up the watercourse 
every evenin’ about five o’clock. If we go and 
lie out on the north ’ill a bit this afternoon 
we’ll get ’im.” 

“You’re a bloodthirsty little mosquito,” 
said Mulvaney, blowing blue clouds into the 
air, “But I suppose I will have to come wid 
you. Fwhere’s Jock?” 

“Gone out with the Mixed Pickles, ’cause ’e 
thinks ’isself a bloomin’ marksman,” said 
Ortheris. 

The “Mixed Pickles” were a detachment of 
picked shots, generally employed in clearing 
spurs of hills when the enemy were too imper- 
tinent. This taught the young officers how 
to handle men, and did not do the enemy much 
harm. Mulvaney and Ortheris strolled out of 
camp, and passed the Aurangabadis going to 
their road-making. 

“You’ve got to sweat to-day,” said Ortheris, 
genially. “We’re going to get your man. 
You didn’t knock ’im out last night by any 
chance, any of you?” 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


III 


‘‘No. The pig went away mocking us. I 
had one shot at him,” said a private. “He’s 
my cousin, and I ought to have cleared our 
dishonor. But good luck to you.” 

They went cautiously to the north hill, Orth- 
eris leading, because, as he explained, “this is 
a long-range show, an’ I’ve got to do it.” His 
was an almost passionate devotion to his rifle, 
which, by barrack-room report, he was sup- 
posed to kiss every night before turning in. 
Charges and scuffles he held in contempt, and, 
when they were inevitable, slipped between 
Mulvaney and Learoyd, bidding them to fight 
for his skin as well as their own. They never 
failed him. He trotted along, questioning like 
a hound on a broken trail, through the wood 
of the north hill. At last he was satisfied, and 
threw himself down on the soft pine-needle 
slope that commanded a clear view of the 
watercourse and a brown, bare hill-side be- 
yond it. The trees made a scented darkness 
in which an army corps could have hidden 
from the sun-glare without. 

“ ’Ere’s the tail o’ the wood,” said Ortheris. 
“ ’E’s got to come up the watercourse, ’cause 
it gives ’im cover. We’ll lay ’ere. ’Tain’t not 
arf so bloomin’ dusty neither.” 

He buried his nose in a clump of scentless 


II2 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


white violets. No one had come to tell the 
flowers that the season of their strength was 
long past, and they bloomed merrily in the 
twilight of the pines. 

*This is something like,” he said, luxuri- 
ously. ^'Wot a ’evinly clear drop for a bullet 
acrost! How much d’you make it, Mul- 
vaney ?” 

‘'Seven hunder. Maybe a trifle less, bekaze 
the air’s so thin.” 

Wop! Wop! Wop! went a volley of mus- 
ketry on the rear face of the north hill. 

“Curse them Mixed Pickles firin’ at nothin’ ! 
They’ll scare arf the country.” 

“Thry a sightin’ shot in the middle of the 
row,” said Mulvaney, the man of many wiles. 
“There’s a red rock yonder he’ll be sure to 
pass. Quick !” 

Ortheris ran his sight up to six hundred 
yards and fired. The bullet threw up a feather 
of dust by a clump of gentians at the base of 
the rock. 

“Good enough !” said Ortheris, snapping 
the scale down. “You snick your sights to 
mine or a little lower. You’re always firin’ 
high. But remember, first shot to me. O 
Lordy! but it’s a lovely afternoon.” 

The noise of the firing grew louder, and 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


113 

there was a tramping of men in the wood. 
The two lay very quiet, for they knew that the 
British soldier is desperately prone to fire at 
anything that moves or calls. Then Learoyd 
appeared, his tunic ripped across the breast by 
a bullet, looking ashamed of himself. He 
flung down on the pine-needles, breathing in 
snorts. 

‘‘One o’ them damned gardeners o’ th’ 
Pickles,” said he, fingering the rent. “Firin’ 
to th’ right flank, when he knowed I was there. 
If I knew who he was I’d rippen the hide offan 
him. Look at ma tunic !” 

“That’s the spishil trustability av a marks- 
man. Train him to hit a fly wid a stiddy rest 
at seven hunder, an’ he loose on anythin’ he 
sees or hears up to th’ mile. You’re well out 
av that fancy-firin’ gang, Jock. Stay here.” 

“Bin firin’ at the bloomin’ wind in the 
bloomin’ treetops,” said Ortheris, with a 
chuckle. “I’ll show you some firin’ later on.” 

They wallowed in the pine-needles, and the 
sun warmed them where they lay. The Mixed 
Pickles ceased firing, and returned to camp, 
and left the wood to a few scared apes. The 
watercourse lifted up its voice in the silence, 
and talked foolishly to the rocks. Now and 
again the dull thump of a blasting charge 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


114 

three miles away told that the Atirangabadis 
were in difficulties with their road-making. 
The men smiled as they listened and lay still, 
soaking in the warm leisure. Presently Lear- 
oyd, between the whiffs of his pipe — 

‘‘Seems queer — about hm yonder — desertin’ 
at all.” 

“ ’E’ll be a bloomin’ side queerer when I’ve 
done with ’im,” said Ortheris. They were 
talking in whispers, for the stillness of the 
wood and the desire of slaughter lay heavy 
upon them. 

‘T make no doubt he had his reasons for de- 
sertin’ ; but, my faith ! I make less doubt ivry 
man has good reason for killin’ him,” said 
Mulvaney. 

“Happen there was a lass tewed up wi’ it. 
Men do more than more for th’ sake of a lass.” 

“They make most av us ’list. They’ve no 
manner av right to make us desert.” 

“Ah; they make us ’list, or their fathers 
do,” said Learoyd, softly, his helmet over his 
eyes. 

Ortheris’s brows contracted savagely. He 
was watching the valley. “If it’s a girl I’ll 
shoot the beggar twice over, an’ second time 
for bein’ a fool. You’re blasted sentimental 
all of a sudden. Thinkin’ o’ your last near 
shave?” 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


115 

“Nay, lad; ah was but thinkin’ o’ what had 
happened.” 

“An fwhat has happened, ye lumberin’ child 
av calamity, that you’re lowing like a cow^ 
calf at the back av the pasture, an’ suggestin’ 
invidious excuses for the man Stanley’s goin’ 
to kill. Ye’ll have to wait another hour yet, 
little man. Spit it out, Jock, an’ bellow melo- 
jus to the moon. It takes an earthquake or a 
bullet graze to fetch aught out av you. Dis- 
course, Don Juan! The a-moors av Lotharius 
Learoyd! Stanley, kape a rowlin’ rig’ mental 
eye on the valley.” 

“It’s along o’ yon hill there,” said Learoyd, 
watching the bare sub-Himalayan spur that 
reminded him of his Yorkshire moors. He 
was speaking more to himself than his fellows. 
“Ay,” said he, “Rumbolds Moor stands up 
ower Skipton town, an’ Greenhow Hill stands 
up ower Pately Brig. I reckon you’ve never 
heeard tell o’ Greenhow Hill, but yon bit o’ 
bare stuff if there was nobbut a white road 
windin’ is like ut; strangely like. Moors an’ 
moors an’ moors, wi’ never a tree for shelter, 
an’ grey houses wi’ flagstone rooves, and pe- 
wits cryin’, an’ a windhover goin’ to and fro 
just like these kites. And cold! a wind that 
cuts you like a knife. You could tell Green- 


ii6 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


how Hill folk by the red-apple color o’ their 
cheeks an’ nose tips, and their blue eyes, driven 
into pin-points by the wind. Miners mostly, 
burrowin’ for lead i’ th’ hillsides, followin’ the 
trail of th’ ore vein same as a field-rat. It 
was the roughest minin’ I ever seen. Yo’d 
come on a bit o’ creakin’ wood windlass like a 
well-head, an’ you was yet down i’ th’ bight of 
a rope, fendin’ yoursen off the side wi’ one 
hand, carryin’ a candle stuck in a lump o’ clay 
with t’other, an’ clickin’ hold of a rope with 
t’other hand.” 

‘‘An’ that’s three of them,” said Mulvaney. 
“Must be a good climate in those parts.” 

Learoyd took no heed. 

“An’ then yo’ came to a level, where you 
crept on your hands and knees through a mile 
o’ windin’ drift, an’ you come out into a cave- 
place as big as Leeds Townhall, with a engine 
pumpin’ water from workin’s ’at went deeper 
still. It’s a queer country, let alone minin’, 
for the hill is full of those natural caves, an’ 
the rivers an’ the becks drops into what they 
call pot-holes, an’ come out again miles away.” 

“Wot was you doin’ there?” said Ortheris. 

“I was a young chap then, an’ mostly went 
wi’ ’osses, leadin’ coal and lead ore ; but at th’ 
time I’m tellin’ on I was drivin’ the waggon- 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


I17 

team i' th’ big sumph. I didn’t belong to that 
countryside by rights. I went there because 
of a little difference at home, an’ at fust I took 
up wi’ a rough lot. One night we’d been 
drinkin’, an’ I must ha’ hed more than I could 
stand, or happen th’ ale was none so good. 
Though i’ them days. By for God, I never seed 
bad ale.” He flung his arms over his head, 
and gripped a vast handful of white violets. 
‘^Nah,” said he, ‘T never seed the ale I could 
not drink, the bacca I could not smoke, nor the 
lass I could not kiss. Well, we mun have a 
race home, the lot on us. I lost all th’ others, 
an’ when I was climbin’ ower one of them 
walls built o’ loose stones, I comes down into 
the ditch, stones and all, an’ broke my arm. 
Not as I knawed much about it, for I fell on 
th’ back of my head, an’ was knocked stupid 
like. An’ when I come to mysen it were 
mornin’, an’ I were lyin’ on the settle i’ Jesse 
Roantree’s houseplace, an’ ’Liza Roantree was 
settin’ sewin’. I ached all ower, and my 
mouth were like a lime-kiln. She gave me a 
drink out of a china mug wi’ gold letters — ‘A 
Present from Leeds’ — as I looked at many and 
many a time at after. ‘Yo’re to lie still while 
Dr. Warbottom comes, because your arm’s 
broken, and father has sent a lad to fetch him. 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


ii8 

He found yo’ when he was goin’ to work, an’ 
carried you here on his back,’ sez she. ‘Oa!’ 
sez I ; an’ I shet my eyes, for I felt ashamed o’ 
my sen. Tather’s gone to his work these three 
hours, an’ he said he’ tell ’em to get somebody 
to drive the tram.’ The clock ticked, an’ a bee 
corned in the house, an’ they rung i’ my head 
like mill-wheels. An’ she give me another 
drink an’ settled the pillow. ‘Eh, but yo’re 
young to be getten drunk an’ such like, but yo’ 
won’t do it again, will yo’?’ — ‘Noa,’ sez I, T 
wouldn’t if she’d not but stop they mill-wheels 
clatterin’.’ ” 

“Faith, it’s a good thing to be nursed by a 
woman when you’re sick !” said Mulvaney. 
“Dir’ cheap at the price av twenty broken 
heads.” 

Ortheris turned to frown across the valley. 
He had not been nursed by many women in 
his life. 

“An’ then Dr. Warbottom comes ridin’ up, 
an’ Jesse Roantree along with ’im. He was a 
high-larned doctor, but he talked wi’ poor folk 
same as theirsens. ‘What’s ta bin agaate on 
naa ?’ he sings out. ‘Brekkin tha thick head ?’ 
An’ he felt me all ovver. ‘That’s none broken. 
Tha’ nobbut knocked a bit sillier than ordi- 
nary, an’ that’s daaft eneaf.’ An’ soa he went 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


1 19 

on, callin’ me all the names he could think on, 
but settin’ my arm, wi’ Jesse’s help, as care- 
ful as could be. ‘Yo’ mun let the big oaf bide 
here a bit, Jesse,’ he says, when he hed 
strapped me up an’ given me a dose o’ physic ; 
‘an’ you an’ ’Liza will tend him, though he’s 
scarcelins worth the trouble. An’ tha’ll lose 
tha work,’ sez he, ‘an’ tha’ll be upon th’ Sick 
Club for a couple o’ months an’ more. 
Doesn’t tha think tha’s a fool ?’ ” 

“But whin was a young man, high or low, 
the other av a fool. I’d like to know?” said 
Mulvaney. “Sure, folly’s the only safe way to 
wisdom, for I’ve thried it.” 

“Wisdom!” grinned Ortheris, scanning his 
comrades with uplifted chin. “You’re 
bloomin’ Solomons, you two, ain’t you ?” 

Learoyd went calmly on, with a steady eye 
like an ox chewing the cud. 

“And that was how I come to know ’Liza 
Roantree. There’s some tunes as she used to 
sing — aw, she were always singin’ — that 
fetches Greenhow Hill before my eyes as fair 
as yon brow across there. And she would 
learn me to sing bass, an’ I was to go to th’ 
chapel wi’ ’em where Jesse and she led the 
singin’, the’ old man playin’ the fiddle. He 
was a strange chap, old Jesse, fair mad wi’ 


120 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


music, an* he made me promise to learn the 
big fiddle when my arm was better. It be- 
longed to him, and it stood up in a big case 
alongside o’ th’ eight-day clock, but Willie 
Satterthwaite, as played it in the chapel, had 
getten deaf as a door-post, and it vexed Jesse, 
as he had to rap him ower his head wi’ th’ 
fiddle-stick to make him give ower sawin’ at 
th’ right time. 

‘^But there was a black drop in it all, an’ it 
was a man in a black coat that brought it. 
When th’ primitive Methodist preacher came 
to Greenhow, he would always stop wi’ Jesse 
Roantree, an’ he laid hold of me from th’ be- 
ginning. It seemed I wor a soul to be saved, 
and he meaned to do it. At th’ same time I 
jealoused ’at he were keen o’ savin’ ’Liza 
Roantree’s soul as well, and I could ha’ killed 
him many a time. An’ this went on till one 
day I broke out, an’ borrowed th’ brass for a 
drink from ’Liza. After fower days I come 
back, wi’ my tail between my legs, just to see 
’Liza again. But Jesse were at home an’ th’ 
preacher — th’ Reverend Amos Barraclough. 
’Liza said naught, but a bit o’ red come into 
her face as were white of a regular thing. 
Says Jesse, tryin’ his best to be civil, ‘Nay, lad, 
it’s like this. You’ve getten to choose which 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


121 


way it’s goin’ to be. I’ll ha’ nobody across ma 
doorstep as goes a-drinkin’, an’ borrows my 
lass’s money to spend i’ their drink. Ho’d tha 
tongue, ’Liza,’ sez he, when she wanted to put 
in a word ’at I were welcome to th’ brass, and 
she were none afraid that I wouldn’t pay it 
back. Then the Reverend cuts in, seein’ as 
Jesse were losin’ his temper, an’ they fair beat 
me among them. But it were ’Liza, as looked 
an’ said naught, as did more than either o’ 
their tongues, an’ soa I concluded to get con- 
verted.” 

“Fwhat?” shouted Mulvaney. Then, check- 
ing himself, he said softly, “Let be! Let be! 
Sure the Blessed Virgin is the mother of all 
religion an’ most women; an’ there’s a dale av 
piety in a girl if the men would only let ut 
stay there. I’d ha’ been converted myself un- 
der the circumstances.” 

“Nay, but,” pursued Learoyd with a blush, 
“I meaned it.” 

Ortheris laughed as loudly as he dared, hav- 
ing regard to his business at the time. 

“Ay, Ortheris, you may laugh, but you 
didn’t know yon preacher Barraclough — a 
little white-faced chap, wi’ a voice as ud wile 
a bird off a bush, and a way o’ layin’ hold of 
folks as made them think they’d never had a 


122 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


live man for a friend before. You never saw 
him, an' — an' — you never seed 'Liza Roantree 
— never seed 'Liza Roantree. . . . Hap- 

pen it was as much 'Liza as th' preacher and 
her father, but anyways they all meaned it, an' 
I was fair shamed o' mysen, an' so I become 
what they call a changed character. And 
when I think on, it's hard to believe as yon 
chap going to prayermeetin's, chapel, and 
classmeetin’s were me. But I nevet had 
naught to say for mysen, though there was a 
deal o’ shoutin', and old Sammy Strother, as 
were almost clemmed to death and doubled up 
with the rheumatics, would sing out, ‘Joyful! 
Joyful!' and 'at it were better to go up to 
heaven in a coal-basket than down to hell i' a 
coach an' six. And he would put his poor old 
claw on my shoulder, sayin', ‘Doesn’t tha feel 
it, tha great lump ? Doesn’t tha feel it ?’ An' 
sometimes I thought I did, and then again I 
thought I didn't, an' how was that?" 

“The iverlastin' nature av mankind," said 
Mulvaney. “An', furthermore, I misdoubt 
you were built for the Primitive Methodians. 
They're a new corps anyways. I hold by the 
Quid Church, for she's the mother of them all 
— ay, an' the father, too. I like her bekase 
she's most remarkable regimental in her fit- 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


123 


tings. I may die in Honolulu, Nova Zambra, 
or Cape Cayenne, but wherever I die, me bein' 
fwhat I am, an' a priest handy, I go under the 
same orders an' the same words an' the same 
unction as tho' the Pope himself come down 
from the roof av St. Peter’s to see me off. 
There’s neither high nor low, nor broad nor 
deep, nor betwixt nor between wid her, an' 
that’s what I like. But mark you, she’s no 
manner av Church for a wake man, bekaze 
she takes the body and the soul av him, onless 
he has his proper work to do. I remember 
when my father died that was three months 
cornin' to his grave; begad he’d sold the she- 
been above our heads for ten minutes’ quit- 
tance of purgathory. An' he did all he could. 
That’s why I say ut takes a strong man to deal 
with the Quid Church, an' for that reason 
you'll find so many women go there. An’ that 
same's a conundrum." 

“Wot’s the use o' worritin' 'bout these 
things?” said Ortheris. “You're bound to 
find all out quicker nor you want to, any'ow.” 
He jerked the cartridge out of the breech- 
block into the palm of his hand. “ 'Ere's my 
chaplain," he said, and made the venomous 
black-headed bullet bow like a marionette. 
“ 'E's goin' to teach a man all about which is 


124 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


which, an’ wot’s true, after all, before sun- 
down. But wot ’appened after that, Jock?” 

“There was one thing they boggled at, and 
almost shut th’ gat i’ my face for, and that 
were my dog Blast, th’ only one saved out o’ 
a litter o’ pups as was blowed up when a keg 
o’ minin’ powder loosed off in th’ storekeeper’s 
hut. They liked his name no better than his 
business, which were fightin’ every dog he 
corned across; a rare good dog, wi’ spots o’ 
black and pink on his face, one ear gone, and 
lame o’ one side wi’ being driven in a basket 
through an iron roof, a matter of half a mile. 

“They said I mun give him up ’cause he 
were worldly and low; and would I let mysen 
be shut out of heaven for the sake on a dog? 
‘Nay,’ says I, ‘if th’ door isn’t wide enough for 
th’ pair on us, we’ll stop outside, for we’ll 
none be parted.’ And th’ preacher spoke up 
for Blast, as had a likin’ for him from th’ first 
— I reckon that was why I come to like th’ 
preacher — and wouldn’t hear o’ changin’ his 
name to Bless, as some o’ them wanted. So 
th’ pair on us became reg’lar chapel-members. 
But it’s hard for a young chap o’ my build to 
cut traces from the world, th’ flesh, an’ the 
devil all uv a heap. Yet I stuck to it for a 
long time, while th’ lads as used to stand about 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


125 


th’ town-end an’ lean ower tli’ bridge, spittin’ 
into th’ beck o’ a Sunday, would call after me, 
^Sitha, Learoyd, when’s ta bean to preach, 
’cause we’re cornin’ to hear tha.’ — 'Ho’d tha 
jaw. He hasn’t getten th’ white choaker oh 
ta morn,’ another lad would say, and I had to 
double my fists hard i’ th’ bottom of my Sun- 
day coat, and say to mysen, ‘If ’twere Monday 
and I warn’t a member o’ the Primitive Meth- 
odists, I’d leather all th’ lot of yond’.’ That 
was th’ hardest of all — to know that I could 
fight and I mustn’t fight.” 

Sympathetic grunts from Mulvaney. 

“So what wi’ singin’, practisin’, and class- 
meetin’s, and th’ big fiddle, as he made me 
take between my knees, I spent a deal o’ time 
i’ Jesse Roantree’s house-place. But often as 
I was there, th’ preacher fared to me to go 
oftener, and both th’ old man an’ th’ young 
woman were pleased to have him. He lived i’ 
Pately Brig, as were a goodish step off, but he 
come. He come all the same. I liked him as 
well or better as any man I’d ever seen i’ one 
way, and yet I hated him wi’ all my heart i’ 
t’other, and we watched each other like cat 
and mouse, but civil as you please, for I was 
on my best behavior, and he was that fair and 
open that I was bound to be fair with him. 


126 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


Rare good company he was, if I hadn’t wanted 
to wring his diver little neck half of the time. 
Often and often when he was goin’ from 
Jesse’s I’d set him a bit on the road.” 

‘‘See ’im ’ome, you mean?” said Ortheris. 

“Ay. It’s a way we have i’ Yorkshire o’ 
seein’ friends off. You was a friend as I 
didn’t want to come back, and he didn’t want 
me to come back neither, and so we’d walk to- 
gether toward Pately, and then he’d set me 
back again, and there we’d be wal two o’clock 
i’ the mornin’ settin’ each other to an’ fro like 
a blasted pair o’ pendulums twixt hill and val- 
ley, long after th’ light had gone out i’ ’Liza’s 
window, as both on us had been looking at, 
pretending to watch the moon.” 

“Ah!” broke in Mulvaney, “ye’d no chanst 
against the maraudin’ psalm-singer. They’ll 
take the airs an’ the graces instid av the man 
nine times out av ten, an’ they only find the 
blunder later — the wimmen.” 

“That’s just where yo’re wrong,” said Lea- 
royd, reddening under the freckled tan of his 
cheeks. “I was th’ first wi’ ’Liza, an’ yo’d 
think that were enough. But th’ parson were 
a steady-gaited sort o’ chap, and Jesse were 
strong o’ his side, and all th’ women i’ the con- 
gregation dinned it to ’Liza ’at she were fair 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


127 


fond to take up wi’ a wastrel ne’er-do-weel 
like me, as was scarelins respectable an’ a fight- 
ing dog at his heels. It was all very well for 
her to be doing me good and saving my soul,- 
but she must mind as she didn’t do herself 
harm. They talk o’ rich folk bein’ stuck up 
an’ genteel, but for cast-iron pride o’ respecta- 
bility there’s naught like poor chapel folk. It’s 
as cold as th’ wind o’ Greenhow Hill — ay, and 
colder, for ’twill never change. And now I 
come to think on it, one at strangest things I 
know is ’at they couldn’t abide th’ thought o’ 
soldiering. There’s a vast o’ fightin’ i’ th’ 
Bible, and there’s a deal of Methodists i’ th’ 
army; but to hear chapel folk talk yo’d think 
that soldierin’ were next door, an’ t’other side, 
to bangin’. I’ their meetin’s all their talk is o’ 
fightin’. When Sammy Strother were stuck 
for summat to say in his prayers, he’d sing 
out, ^The’ sword o’ th’ Lord and o’ Gideon.’ 
They were alius at it about puttin’ on th’ 
whole armor o’ righteousness, an’ fightin’ the 
good fight o’ faith. And then, atop o’ ’t all, 
they held a prayer-meetin’ ower a young chap 
as wanted to ’list, and nearly deafened him, 
till he picked up his hat and fair ran away. 
And they’d tell tales in th’ Sunday-school o’ 
bad lads as had been thumped and brayed for 


128 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


bird-nesting o* Sundays and playin' truant o' 
week days, and how they took to wrestlin’, 
dog-fightin*, rabbit-runnin’, and drinkin’, till 
at last, as if ’twere a hepitaph on a gravestone, 
they damned him across th’ moors wi’, ‘an’ 
then he went and ’listed for a soldier,’ an’ 
they’d all fetch a deep breath, and throw up 
their eyes like a hen drinkin’.” 

“Fwhy is ut?” said Mulvaney, bringing 
down his hand on his thigh with a crack. “In 
the name av God, fwhy is ut ? I’ve seen ut, tu. 
They cheat an’ they swindle an’ they lie an’ 
they slander, an’ fifty things fifty times worse ; 
but the last an’ the worst by their reckonin’ is 
to serve the Widdy honest. It’s like the talk 
av childer — seein’ things all round.” 

“Plucky lot of fightin’ good fights of what- 
sername they’d do if we didn’t see they had a 
quiet place to fight in. And such fightin’ as 
theirs is ! Cats on the tiles. T’other callin’ to 
which to come on. I’d give a month’s pay to 
get some o’ them broad-backed beggars in 
London sweatin’ through a day’s road-makin’ 
an’ a night’s rain. They’d carry on a deal 
afterward — same as we’re supposed to carry 
on. I’ve been turned out of a measly arf-li- 
cense pub down Lambeth way, full o’ greasy 
kebmen ’fore now,” said Ortheris with an 
oath. 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


129 


‘'Maybe you were dhrunk,” said Mulvaney, 
soothingly. 

“Worse nor that. The Forders were drunk. 
I was wearin’ the Queen's uniform." 

“Fd no particular thought to be a soldier i' 
them days," said Learoyd, still keeping his 
eye on the bare hill opposite, “but this sort o' 
talk put it i' my head. They was so good, th’ 
chapel folk, that they tumbled ower t’other 
side. But I stuck to it for ’Liza’s sake, spe- 
cially as she was learning me to sing the bass* 
part in a horotorio as Jesse were gettin’ up. 
She sung like a throstle hersen, and we had 
practicin’s night after night for a matter of 
three months.” 

“I know what a horotorio is," said Ortheris, 
pertly. “It’s a sort of chaplain’s sing-song — 
words all out of the Bible, and hullabaloo j ah 
choruses." 

“Most Greenhow Hill folks played some in- 
strument or t’other, an’ they all sung so you 
might have heard them miles away, and they 
were so pleased wi' the noise they made they 
didn’t fair to want anybody to listen. The 
preacher sung high seconds when he wasn’t 
playin' the flute, an’ they set me, as hadn’t got 
far with big fiddle, again Willie Satterthwaite, 
to jog his elbow when he had to get a' gate 


130 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


playin’. Old Jesse was happy if ever a man 
was, for he were th* conductor an’ th’ first fid- 
dle an’ th’ leadin’ singer, heatin’ time wi’ his 
fiddle-stick, till at times he’d rap with it on 
the table, and cry out, ‘Now, you mun all stop; 
it’s- my turn.’ And he’d face round to his 
front, fair sweating wi’ pride, to sing th’ tenor 
solos. But he were grandest i’ th choruses, 
waggin’ his head, flinging his arms round like 
a windmill, and singin’ hisself black in the 
face. A rare singer were Jesse. 

“Yo’ see, I was not o’ much account wi’ 
’em all exceptin’ to ’Liza Roantree, and I had 
a deal o’ time settin’ quiet at meetings and 
horotorio practices to hearken their talk, and 
if it were strange to me at beginnin’, it got 
stranger still at after, when I was shut on it, 
and could study what it meaned. 

“Just after th’ horotorios come off, ’Liza, 
as had alius been weakly like, was took very 
bad. I walked Dr. Warbottom’s horse up and 
down a deal of times while he were inside, 
where they wouldn’t let me go, though I fair 
ached to see her. 

“ ‘She’ll be better i’ noo, lad — ^better i’ noo,’ 
he used to say. ‘Tha mun ha’ patience.’ Then 
they said if I was quiet I might go in, and th’ 
Reverend Amos Barraclough used to read to 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


131 

her lyin’ propped up among th’ pillows. Then 
she began to mend a bit, and they let me carry 
her on to th’ settle, and when it got warm 
again she went about same as afore. Th’ 
preacher and me and Blast was a deal together 
i’ them days, and i’ one way we was rare good 
comrades. But I could ha’ stretched him time 
and again with a good will. I mind one day 
he said he would like to go down into th’ 
bowels o’ th’ earth, and see how th’ Lord had 
builded th’ framework o’ th’ everlastin’ hills. 
He were one of them chaps as had a gift o’ 
sayin’ things. They rolled off the tip of his 
clever tongue, same as Mulvaney here, as 
would ha’ made a rare good preacher if he 
had nobbut given his mind to it. I lent him a 
suit o’ miner’s kit as almost buried th’ little 
man, and his white face down i’ th’ coat-collar 
and hat-flap looked like the face of a boggart, 
and he cowered down i’ th’ bottom o’ the wag- 
gon. I was drivin’ a tram as led up a bit of an 
incline up to th’ cave where the engine was 
pumpin’, and where th’ ore was brought up 
and put into th’ waggons as went down o’ 
themselves, me puttin’ th’ brake on and th’ 
horses a-trottin’ after. Long as it was daylight 
we were good friends, but when we got fair 
into the dark, and could nobbut see th’ day 


132 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


shinin’ at the hole like a lamp at a street-end, I 
feeled downright wicked. Ma religion 
dropped all away from me when I looked back 
at him as were always cornin’ between me and 
’Liza. The talk was ’at they were to be wed 
when she got better, an’ I couldn’t get her to 
say yes or nay to it. He began to sing a hymn 
in his thin voice, and I came out wi’ a chorus 
that was all cussin’ an’ swearin’ at my horses, 
an’ I began to know how I hated him. He 
were such a little chap, too. I could drop him 
wi’ one hand down Garstang’s Copper-hole — a 
place where th’ beck slithered ower th’ edge on 
a rock, and fell wi’ a bit of a whisper into a 
pit as no rope i’ Greenhow could plump.” 

Again Learoyd rooted up the innocent vio- 
lets. ‘‘Ay, he should see th’ bowels o’ th’ earth 
an’ never naught else. I could take him a mile 
or two along th’ drift, and leave him wi’ his 
candle doused to cry hallelujah, wi’ none to 
hear him and say amen. I was to lead him 
down th’ ladder- way to th’ drift where Jesse 
Roantree was workin’, and why shouldn’t he 
slip on th’ ladder, wi’ my feet on his fingers till 
they loosed grip, and I put him down wi’ my 
heel? If I went fust down th’ ladder I could 
click hold on him and chuck him over my 
head, so as he should go squshin’ down the 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


133 


shaft, breakin’ his bones at ev’ry timberin’ as 
Bill Appleton did when he was fresh, and 
hadn’t a bone left when he wrought to th’ 
bottom. Niver a blasted leg to walk from 
Pately. Niver an arm to put round ’Liza 
Roantree’s waist. Niver no more — niver no 
more.” 

The thick lips curled back over the yellow 
teeth, and that flushed face was not pretty to 
look upon. Mulvaney nodded sympathy, and 
Ortheris, moved by his comrade’s passion, 
brought up the rifle to his shoulder, and 
searched the hillside for his quarry, muttering 
ribaldry about a sparrow, a spout, and a thun- 
derstorm. The voice of the watercourse sup- 
plied the necessary small talk till Learoyd 
picked up his story. 

^*But it’s none so easy to kill a man like yon. 
When I’d given up my horses to th’ lad as took 
my place and I was showin’ th’ preacher th’ 
workin’s, shoutin’ into his ear across th’ 
clang o’ th’ pumpin’ engines, I saw he were 
afraid o’ naught; and when the lamplight 
showed his black eyes, I could feel as he was 
masterin’ me again. I were no better nor 
Blast chained up short and growlin’ i’ the 
depths of him while a strange dog went safe 
past. 


134 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


“ Thwart a coward and a fool,’ I said to my- 
sen; an’ I wrestled i’ my mind agin’ him till, 
when we come to Garstang’s Copper-hole, I 
laid hold o’ the preacher and lifted him up 
over my head and held him into the darkest 
on it. ‘Now, lad,’ I says, ‘it’s to be one or 
t’other on us — thee or me — for ’Liza Roan- 
tree. Why, isn’t thee afraid for thysen?’ I 
says, for he were still i’ my arms as a sack. 
‘Nay ; I’m but afraid for thee, my poor lad, as 
knows naught,’ says he. I set him down on 
th’ edge, an’ th’ beck run stiller, an’ there was 
no more buzzin’ in my head like when th’ bee 
come through th’ window o’ Jesse’s house. 
‘What dost tha mean?’ says 1. 

“ ‘I’ve often thought as thou ought to 
know,’ says he, ‘but ’twas hard to tell thee. 
’Liza Roantree’s for neither on us, nor for no- 
body o’ this earth. Dr. Warbottom says — and 
he knows her, and her mother before her — that 
she is in a decline, and she cannot live six 
months longer. He’s known it for many a 
day. Steady, John! Steady!’ says he. And 
that weak little man pulled me further back 
and set me again’ him, and talked it all over 
quiet and still, me turnin’ a bunch o’ candles in 
my hand, and counting them ower and ower 
again as I listened. A deal on it were th’ reg- 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


135 


ular preachin’ talk, but there were a vast lot as 
made me begin to think as he were more of a 
man than Fd ever given him credit for, till 
I were cut as deep for him as I were for my- 
sen. 

‘‘Six candles we had, and we crawled and 
climbed all that day while they lasted, and I 
said to mysen, ‘ ’Liza Roantree hasn’t six 
months to live.’ And when we came into th’ 
daylight again we were like dead men to look 
at, an’ Blast come behind us without so much 
as waggin’ his tail. When I saw ’Liza again 
she looked at me a minute and says, ‘Who’s 
telled tha? For I see tha knows.’ And she 
tried to smile as she kissed me, and I fair 
broke down. 

“Yo’ see, I was a young chap i’ them days, 
and had seen naught o’ life, let alone death, as 
is alius a-waitin’. She telled me as Dr. War- 
bottom said as Greenhow air was too keen, 
and they were goin’ to Bradford, to Jesse’s 
brother David, as worked i’ a mill, and I mun 
hold up like a man and a Christian, and she’d 
pray for me. Well, and they went away, and 
the preacher that same back end o’ th’ year 
were appointed to another circuit, as they call 
it, and I were left alone on Greenhow Hill. 

“I tried, and I tried hard, to stick to th* 


136 ON GREENHOW HILL 


chapel, but ’tweren’t th* same thing at after. 
I hadn't 'Liza's voice to follow i' th' singin', 
nor her eyes a-shinin' acrost their heads. And 
i' th' class-meetings they said as I mun have 
some experiences to tell, and I hadn’t a word 
to say for mysen. 

“Blast and me moped a good deal, and hap- 
pen we didn't behave ourselves over, well, for 
they dropped us and wondered however they’d 
come to take us up. I can’t tell how we got 
through th' time, while i' th' winter I gave up 
my job and went to Bradford. Old Jesse 
were at th’ door o' th' house, in a long street 
o' little houses. He’d been sendin’ th’ children 
'way as were clatterin' their clogs in th' cause- 
way, for she were asleep. 

“ ‘Is it thee ?’ he says ; ‘but you're not to see 
her. I’ll none have her wakened for a nowt 
like thee. She's goin' fast, and she mun go in 
peace. Thou’lt never be good for naught i' 
th’ world, and as long as thou lives thou’ll 
never play the big fiddle. Get away, lad, get 
away !’ So he shut the door softly i' my face. 

“Nobody never made Jesse my master, but 
it seemed to me he was about right, and I 
went away into the town and knocked up 
against a recruiting sergeant. The old tales o' 
th' chapel folk came buzzin' into my head. I 


V 


ON GREENHOW HILL 


137 


was to get away, and this were th’ regular 
road for the likes o’ me. I listed there and 
then, took th’ Widow’s shillin’, and had a 
bunch o’ ribbons pinned i’ my hat. 

‘^But next day I found my way to David 
^oantree’s door, and Jesse came to open it. 
S^iys he, ‘Thou’s come back again wi’ th’ dev- 
il’s colors flyin’ — thy true colors, as I always 
telled thee.’ 

“But I begged and prayed of him to let me 
see her nobbut to say good-bye, till a woman 
calls down th’ stairway, ‘She says John Lea- 
royd’s to come up.’ Th’ old man shifts aside 
in a flash, and lays his hand on my arm, quite 
gentle like. ‘But thou’lt be quiet, John,’ says 
he, ‘for she’s rare and weak. Thou was alius 
a good lad.’ 

“Her eyes were all alive wi’ light, and her 
hair was thick on the pillow round her, but 
her cheeks were thin — thin to frighten a man 
that’s strong. ‘Nay, father, yo’ mayn’t say th’ 
devil’s colors. Them ribbons is pretty.’ An’ 
she held out her hands for th’ hat, an’ she put 
all straight as a woman will wi’ ribbons. ‘Nay, 
but what they’re pretty,’ she says. ‘Eh, but 
I’d ha’ liked to see thee i’ thy red coat, John, 
for thou was alius my own lad — my very own 
lad, and none else.’ 


138 ON GREENHOW HILL 


''She lifted up her arms, and they come 
round my neck i’ a gentle grip, and they 
slacked away, and she seemed fainting. 'Now, 
yo’ mun get away, lad,’ says Jesse, and I 
picked up my hat and I came downstairs. 

"Th’ recruiting sergeant were waitin’ for 
me at th’ corner public-house. 'You’ve seen 
your sweetheart?’ says he. 'Yes, I’ve seen 
her,’ says I. 'Well, we’ll have a quart now, 
and you’ll do your best to forget her,’ says he, 
bein’ one o’ them smart, bustlin’ chaps. 'Ay, 
sergeant,’ says I. 'Forget her.’ And I’ve been 
forgettin’ her ever since.” 

He threw away the wilted clump of white 
violets as he spoke. Ortheris suddenly rose to 
his knees, his rifle at his shoulder, and peered 
across the valley in the clear afternoon light. 
His chin cuddled the stock, and there was a 
twitching of the muscles of the right cheek as 
he sighted; Private Stanley Ortheris was en- 
gaged on his business. A speck of white 
crawled up the water-course. 

"See that beggar? . . . Got ’im.” 

Seven hundred yards away, and a full two 
hundred down the hillside, the deserter of the 
Aurangabadis pitched forward, rolled down 
a red rock, and lay very still, with his face in a 
clump of blue gentians, while a big raven 




** mi' }oD , . . ^ jfirij 338 »» 

zalloH Wsni89>i Ism'sho laih aoZ 3& waibn A iuio[ yd siuvKigosssM 



** See that beggar ? . . . Got 'im 

Mezzogravure by John Andrew & Son after original by Reginald Bolles 



# 


Copyright, 1909, by The Edinburgh Society 




ON GREENHOW HILL 


139 


flapped out of the pine wood to make investi- 
gation. 

'That’s a clean shot, little man,” said Mul- 
vaney. 

Learoyd thoughtfully watched the smoke 
clear away. "Happen there was a lass tewed 
up wi’ him, too,” said he. 

Ortheris did not reply. He was staring 
across the valley, with the smile of the artist 
who looks on the completed work. 







THE TAKING OF LUNGTUNGPEN 




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THE TAKING OF LUNGTUNGPEN 


So we loosed a bloomin’ volley, 

An’ we made the beggars cut, 

An’ when our pouch was emptied out, 

We used the bloomin’ butt, 

Ho! My! 

Don’t yer come anigh. 

When Tommy is a playin’ with the baynit an’ the butt. 

Barrack Room Ballad. 

M y friend Private Mulvaney told me this, 
sitting on the parapet of the road to 
Dagshai, when we were hunting buterflies to- 
gether. He had theories about the Army, and 
colored clay pipes perfectly. He said that the 
young soldier is the best to work with, “on ac- 
count av the surpassing innocinse av the child.’* 
“Now, listen!’ said Mulvaney, throwing 
himxself full length on the wall in the sun. “I’m 
a born scutt av the barrick-room ! The Army’s 
mate an’ dhrink to me, bekaze I’m wan av the 
few that can’t quit ut. I’ve put in sivinteen 
years, an’ the pipeclay’s in the marrow av me. 
Av I cud have kept out av wan big dhrink a 
month, I wud have been a Hon’ry Lift’nint by 

143 


144 


THE TAKING OF 


this time — a nuisince to my betthers, a laughin’ 
shtock to my equils, an’ a curse to meself. 
Bein’ fwhat I am, I’m Privit Mulvaney, wid 
no good-conduc’ pay an’ a devourin’ thirst. Al- 
ways barrin’ me little frind Bobs Bahadur, I 
know as much about the Army as most men.” 

I said something here. 

^'Wolseley be shot! Betune you an’ me an’ 
that butterfly net, he’s a ramblin’, incoherint 
sort av a divil, wid wan oi on the Quane an’ 
the Coort, an’ the other on his blessed silf — 
everlastin’ly playing Saysar an’ Alexandrier 
rowled into a lump. Now Bobs is a sinsible 
little man. Wid Bobs an’ a few three-year-olds, 
I’d swape any army av the earth into a towel, 
an’ throw it away aftherward. Faith, I’m not 
jokin’! ’Tis the bhoys — the raw bhoys — that 
don’t know fwhat a bullut manes, an’ wudn’t 
care av they did — that dhu the work. They’re 
crammed wid bull-mate till they fairly ramps 
wid good livin’; and thin, av they don’t fight, 
they blow each other’s bids off. ’Tis the trut’ 
I’m tellin’ you. They shud be kept on water 
an’ rice in the hot weather; but there’d be a 
mut’ny av ’twas done. 

^‘Did ye iver hear how Privit Mulvaney tuk 
the town av Lungtungpen? I thought not! 
’Twas the Lift’nint got the credit ; but ’twas me 


LUNGTUNGPEN 


145 


planned the schame. A little before I wavS in- 
viladed from Burma, me an’ four-an’-twenty 
young wans undher a Lift’nint Brazenose, was 
ruinin’ our dijeshins thryin’ to catch dacoits. 
An! such double-ended divils I niver knew! 
’Tis only a dah an’ a Snider that makes a da- 
coit. Widout thim, he’s a paceful cultivator, 
an’ felony for to shoot. We hunted, an’ we 
hunted, an’ tuk fever an’ elephints now an’ 
again; but no dacoits. Evenshually, we pucka- 
rowed wan man. ^Trate him tinderly,’ sez the 
Lift’nint. So I tuk him away into the jungle, 
wid the Burmese interprut’r an’ my clanin’-rod. 
Sez I to the man, ‘My paceful squireen,’ sez I, 
‘you shquot on your hunkers an’ dimonstrate 
to my frind here, where your frinds are whin 
they’re at home?’ Wid that I intro j need him 
to the clanin’-rod, an’ he comminst to jabber; 
the Interprut’r interprutin’ in betweens, an’ me 
helpin’ the Intilligince Department wid my 
clanin’-rod whin the man misremimbered. 

“ ‘Prisintly, I learn that, acrost the river, 
about nine miles away, was a town just dhrip- 
pin’ wid dahs, an’ bobs an’ arrows, an’ dacoits, 
and elephints, an’ jingles. ‘Good !’ sez I ; ‘this 
office will now close!’ 

“That night, I went to the Lift’nint an’ 
communicates my information. I never thought 


146 


THE TAKING OF 


much of Lift’nint Brazenose till that night. He 
was shtiff wid books an’ the-ouries, an’ all 
manner av thrimmin’s no maner av use. ‘Town 
did ye say ?’ sez he. ‘Accordin’ to the theouries 
av War, we shud wait for reinforcemints.’ — 
‘Faith !’ thinks I, ‘we’d betther dig our graves 
thin;’ for the nearest throops was up to their 
shtocks in the marshes out Mimbu way. ‘But,’ 
says the Lift’nint, ‘since ’tis a speshil case. I’ll 
make an excepshin. We’ll visit this Lungtung- 
pen to-night.’ 

“The bhoys was fairly woild wid deloight 
whin I tould ’em; an’, by this and that, they 
wint through the jungle like buck-rabbits. 
About midnight we come to the shtrame which 
I had clane forgot to minshin to my orficer. I 
was on, ahead, wid four bhoys, an’ I thought 
that the Lift’nint might want to the-ourise. 
“Shtrip boys!’ sez I. ‘Shtrip to the buff, an’ 
shwim in where glory waits!’ — ‘But I can't 
shwim!’ sez two av thim. ‘To think I should 
live to hear that from a bhoy wid a board- 
school edukashin !’ sez I. ‘Take a lump av tim- 
ber, an’ me an’ Conolly here will ferry ye 
over, ye young ladies!’ 

“We got an ould tree-trunk, an’ pushed off 
wid the kits an’ the rifles on it. The night was 
chokin’ dhark, an’ just as we was fairly em- 


LUNGTUNGPEN 


147 


barked, I heard the Lift'nint behind av me 
callin’ out, ‘There’s a bit av a nullah here, sorr,’ 
sez I, ‘but I can feel the bottom already.’ So I 
cud, for I was not a yard from the bank. 

“ ‘Bit av a nullah! Bit av an eshtuary!’ sez 
the Lift’nint. ‘Go on, ye mad Irishman! 
Shtrip bhoys !’ I ■ heard him laugh ; an’ the 
bhoys begun shtrippin’ an’ rollin’ a log into the 
wather to put their kits on. So me an’ Conolly 
shtruck out through the warm wather wid our 
log, an’ the rest come on behind. 

“That shtrame was miles woide! Orth’ris, 
on the rear-rank log, whispers we had got into 
the Thames below Sheerness by mistake. 
‘Kape on shwimmin,’ ye little blayguard,’ sez 
I, ‘an’ don’t go pokin’ your dirty jokes at the 
Irriwady.’ — ‘Silince, men!’ sings out the Lift’- 
nint. So we shwum on into the black dhark, 
wid our chests on the log, trustin’ in the Saints 
an’ the luck av the British Army. 

“Evenshually, we hit ground — a bit av sand 
— an’ a man. I put my heel on the back av 
him. He skreeched an’ ran. 

“ ‘iVow we’ve done it!’ sez Lift’nint Braze- 
nose. “Where the Divil is Lungtungpen ?’ 
There was about a minute and a half to wait. 
The bhoys laid a hould av their rifles an’ some 
thried to put their belts on; we was marchin’ 


148 


THE TAKING OF 


wid fixed baynits av coorse. Thin we knew 
where Lungtungpen was; for we had hit the 
river-wall av it in the dhark, an’ the whole 
town blazed wid thim messin’ jingles an’ Sni- 
ders like a cat’s back on a frosty night. They 
was firin’ all ways at wanst; but over our bids 
into the shtrame. 

^Have you got your rifles ?’ sez Brazenose. 
'Got ’em!’ sez Orth’ris. T’ve got that thief 
Mulvaney’s for all my back-pay, an’ she’ll kick 
my heart sick wid that blunderin’ long shtock 
av hers.’ — 'Go on!’ yells Brazenose, whippin’ 
his sword out. 'Go on an’ take the town ! An’ 
the Lord have mercy on our sowls!’ 

"Thin the bhoys gave wan divastatiii’ howl, 
an’ pranced into the dhark, feelin’ for the 
town, an’ blindin’ an’ stiflin’ like Cavalry 
Ridin’ Masters whin the grass pricked their 
bare legs. I hammered wid the butt at some 
bamboo-thing that felt wake, an’ the rest come 
an’ hamered contagious, while the jingles was 
jingling, an’ feroshus yells from inside was 
shplittin’ our ears. We was too close under 
the wall for thim to hurt us. 

"Evenshually, the thing, whatever ut was, 
bruk; an’ the six-and-twinty av us tumbled, 
wan after the other, naked as we was borrun, 
into the town of Lungtungpen. There was a 


LUNGTUNGPEN 


149 


melly av a sumpshus kind for a whoile; but 
whether they tuk us, all white an’ wet, for a 
new breed av divil, or a new kind av dacoit, I 
don’t know. They ran as though we was both, 
an’ we wint into thim, baynit an’ butt, shriekin’ 
wid laughin’. There was torches in the 
shtreets, an’ I saw little Orth’ris rubbin’ his 
showlther ivry time he loosed my long-shtock 
Martini; an’ Brazenose walkin’ into the gang 
wid his sword, like Diarmid av the Gowlden 
Collar — barring he hadn’t a stitch av clothin’ 
on him. We diskivered elephints wid dacoits 
under their bellies, an’ what wid wan thing an' 
another, we was busy till mornin’ takin’ pos- 
session av the town of Lungtungpen. 

‘Thin we halted an’ formed up, the wimmen 
howlin’ in the houses an’ Lift’nint Brazenose 
blushin’ pink in the light av the mornin’ sun. 
’Twas the most ondasint p’rade I iver tuk a 
hand in. Foive-and-twenty privits an’ a orficer 
av the Line in review ordher, an’ not as much 
as ud dust a fife betune ’em all in the way of 
clothin’! Eight av us had their belts an’ 
pouches on; but the rest had gone in wid a 
handful av cartridges an’ the skin God gave 
thim. They was as nakid as Vanus. 

“ ‘Number off from the right!’ sez the Lift’- 
nint. ‘Odd numbers fall out to dress; even 


150 


THE TAKING OE 


numbers pathrol the town till relieved by the 
dressing party.’ Let me tell you, pathrollin’ a 
town wid nothing on is an ex/^ayrience. I pa- 
throlled for tin minutes, an’ begad before ’twas 
over, I blushed. The women laughed so. I 
niver blushed before or since ; but I blushed all 
over my carkiss thin. Orth’ris didn’t pathrol. 
He sez only, Tortsmith Barricks an’ the ’Ard 
av a Sunday!’ Thin he lay down an’ rowled 
any ways wid laughin’. 

‘Whin we was all dhressed, we counted the 
dead — sivinty-foive dacoits besides wounded. 
We tuk five elephints, a hunder’ an’ sivinty 
Sniders, two hunder’ dahs, and a lot av other 
burglarious thruck. Not a man av us was hurt 
— excep’ maybe the Lift’nint, an’ he from the 
shock to his dasincy. 

“The Headman av Lungtungpen, who sur- 
render’d himself, asked the Interprut’r — ‘ ’Av 
the English fight like that wid their clo’es off, 
what in the wurruld do they do wid their 
clo’es on ?’ Orth’ris began rowlin’ his eyes an’ 
crackin’ his fingers an’ dancin’ a step-dance for 
to impress the Headman. He ran to his house ; 
an’ we spint the rest av the day carryin’ the 
Lift’nint on our sho withers round the town, 
an’ playin’ wid the Burmese babies — fat, little, 
brown little divils, as pretty as pictures. 


LUNGTUNGPEN 


151 

'Whin I was inviladed for the dysentery to 
India, I sez to the Lift’nint, 'Sorr,’ sez I, 
'you've the makin’s in you av a great man ; but, 
av you'll let an ould sodger spake, you're too 
fond of theourisin’.' He shuk hands wid me 
and sez, 'Hit high, hit low, there's no plasin' 
you, Mulvaney. You've seen me waltzin' 
through Lungtungpen like a Red In jin widout 
the warpaint, an' you say I'm too fond av the- 
ourisin'? — 'Sorr,' sez I, for I loved the bhoy; 
'I wud waltz wid you in that condishin 
through Hell, an’ so wud the rest av the men !' 
Thin I wint down shtrame in the flat an’ left 
him my blessin’. May the Saints carry ut 
where ut shud go, for he was a fine upstandin' 
young orficer. 

"To reshume. Fwhat I’ve said jist shows 
the use av three-year-olds. Wud fifty seasoned 
sodgers have taken Lungtungpen in the dhark 
that way? No ! They’d know the risk av fever 
and chill. Let alone the shootin'. Two hun- 
dher' might have done ut. But the three-year- 
olds know little an' care less ; an' where there's 
no fear, there's no danger. Catch thim young, 
feed thim high, an’ by the honor av that great, 
little man Bobs, behind a good orficer 'tisn't 
only dacoits they’d smash wid their clo’es off — 
'tis Con-ti-nental Ar-r-r-mies ! They tuk Lung- 


152 


THE TAKING OE 


tungpen nakid ; an’ they’d take St. Pethersburg 
in their dhrawers ! Begad, they would that ! 

**There’s your pipe, sorr. Shmoke her tin- 
derly wid honey-dew, afther letting the reek 
av the Canteen plug die away. But ’tis no 
good, thanks to you all the same, fillin’ my 
pouch wid your chopped hay. Canteen 
baccy’s like the Army. It shpoils a man’s 
taste for moilder things.” 

So saying, Mulvaney took up his butterfly- 
net, and returned to barracks. 


J . ^ k-J « \ 


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THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT 

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THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT 


Jain ’Ardin was a Sarjint’s wife, 

A Sarjint’s wife wus she. 

She married of ’im in Orldershort 
An’ corned across the sea. 

{Chorus) ’Ave you never ’eard tell ’o Jain ’Ardin’? 


Jain ’Ardin’? 
Jain ’Ardin’? 


’Ave you never ’eard tell ’o Jain ’Ardin'? 
The pride o’ the Compan^^? 

Old Barrack Room Ballad. 


C C GENTLEMAN who doesn’t know the 



Circasian Circle ought not to stand 


up for it — puttin’ everybody out.” That was 
what Miss McKenna said, and the Sergeant, 
who was my vis-a-vis looked the same thing. 
I was afraid of Miss McKenna. She was six 
feet high, all yellow freckles and red hair, and 
was simply clad in white satin shoes, a pink 
muslin dress, an apple-green stuff sash, and 
black silk gloves, with yellow roses in her hair. 
Wherefore I fled from Miss McKenna and 
sought my friend Private Mulvaney, who was 
at the cant — refreshment table. 

“So you've been dancin’ with little Jhansi 


155 


THE DAUGHTER 


156 

McKenna, sorr — she that^s goin’ to marry 
Corp’ril Slane? Whin you next conversh wid 
your lorruds an’ your ladies, tell thim you’ve 
danced wid little Jhansi. ’Tis a thing to- be 
proud av.” 

But I wasn’t proud. I was humble. I saw 
a story in Private Mulvaney’s eye ; and besides, 
if he stayed too long at the bar, he would, I 
knew, qualify for more pack-drill. Now to 
meet an esteemed friend doing pack-drill out- 
side the guard-room is embarrassing, espe- 
cially if you happen to be walking with his 
Commanding Officer. 

‘Uome on to the parade-ground, Mulvaney, 
it’s cooler there, and tell me about Miss Mc- 
Kenna. What is she, and who is she, and why 
is she called ‘Jhansi’ ?” 

“D’ye mane to say you’ve niver heard av 
Ould Pummeloe’s daughter? An’ you thinkin’ 
you know things ! I’m wid ye in a minut whin 
me poipe’s lit.” 

We came out under the stars. Mulvaney 
sat down on one of the artillery bridges, and 
began in the usual way: his pipe between his 
teeth, his big hands clasped and dropped be- 
tween his knees, and his cap well on the back 
of his head — 

“Whin Mrs. Mulvaney, that is, was Miss 


OF THE REGIMENT 


157 


Shadd that was, you were a dale younger than 
you are now, an' the Army was dif’rint in sev'- 
ril e-sen-shuls. Bhoys have no call for to 
marry nowadays, an' that's why the Army has 
so- few rale good, honust, swearin'^ strapagin', 
tinder-hearted, heavy-futted wives as ut used 
to have whin I was a Corp’ril. I was rejuced 
aftherward — but no matther — I was a Corp'- 
ril wanst. In thim times, a man lived an' died 
wid his regiment; an' by natur’, he married 
whin he was a man. Whin I was Corp'ril — 
Mother av Hivin, how the rigimint has died 
an' been borrun since that day! — my Color- 
Sar-jint was Ould McKenna, an' a married 
man tu. An' his woife — his first woife, for he 
married three times did McKenna — was Brid- 
get McKenna, from Portarlington, like mesilf. 
I've misremembered fwhat her first name was ; 
but in B Comp'ny we called her ‘Ould Pum- 
meloe,' by reason av her figure, which was en- 
tirely cir-cum-fe-renshill. Like the big 
dhrum! Now that woman — God rock her 
sowl to rest in glory! — was for everlastin' 
havin' childher; an' McKenna, whin the fifth 
or sixth come squallin' on to the musther-roll, 
swore he wud number thim off in future. But 
Ould Pummeloe she prayed av him to christen 
them after the names av the stations they was 


IS8 


THE DAUGHTER 


borrun in. So there was Colaba McKenna, an 
Muttra McKenna, an’ a whole Presidincy av 
other McKennas, an’ little Jhansi, dancin’ over 
yonder. Whin the childher wasn’t bornin , 
they was dying; for, av our childher die like 
sheep in these days, they died like flies thin. I 
lost me own little Shadd — but no matther. 
’Tis long ago, and Mrs. Mulvaney niver had 
another. 

‘^I’m digresshin. Wan divil’s hot summer, 
there come an order from some mad ijjit, 
whose name I misremember, for the rigimint to 
go up-country. Maybe they wanted to know 
how the new rail carried throops. They knew ! 
On me sowl, they knew before they was done! 
Old Pummeloe had just buried Muttra Mc- 
Kenna, the season bein’ onwholesim, only little 
Jhansi McKenna, who was four year ould 
thin, was left on hand. 

‘Tive children gone in fourteen months. 
’Twas harrd, wasn’t ut? 

‘‘So we wint up to our new station in that 
blazin’ heat — may the curse av Saint Lawrence 
conshume the man who gave the ordher ! Will 
I iver forget that move? They gave us two 
wake thrains to the rigimint; an* we was 
eight hudher’ and sivinty strong. There was 
A, B, C, an’ D Companies in the secon’ thrain. 


OF THE REGIMENT 


159 


wid twelve women, no orficers’ ladies, an' thir- 
teen childher. We was to go six hundher' 
miles, an' railways was new in thim days. 
Whin we had been a night in the belly av the 
thrain — the men ragin' in their shirts an' 
dhrinkin' anything they cud find, an' eatin' bad 
fruit-stuff whin they cud, for we cudn't stop 
’em — I was a Corp'ril thin — the cholera bruk 
out wid the dawnin' av the day. 

‘Tray to the Saints, you may niver see chol- 
era in a throop-thrain ! 'Tis like the judgmint 
av God hittin' down from the nakid sky ! We 
run into a rest-camp — as ut might have been 
Ludianny, but not by any means so comfort- 
able. The Orficer Commandin' sent a telegrapt 
up the line, three hundher' mile up, askin' for 
help. Faith, we wanted ut, for ivry sowl av 
the followers ran for the dear life as soon as 
the thrain stopped; an' by the time that tele- 
grapt was writ, there wasn't a naygur in the 
station exceptin' the telegrapt-clerk — an' he 
only bekaze he was held down to his chair by 
the scruff av his sneakin' black neck. Thin the 
day began wid the noise in the carr'ges, an' the 
rattle av the men on the platform failin' over, 
arms an' all, as they stud for to answer the 
Comp'ny muster-roll before goin' over to the 
camp. 'Tisn't for me to say what like the chol- 


i6o 


THE DAUGHTER 


era was like. May be the Doctor cud ha’ tould, 
av he hadn’t dropped on to the platform from 
the door av a carriage where we was takin’ out 
the dead. He died wid the rest. Some bhoys 
had died in the night. We tuk out siven, and 
twenty more was sickenin’ as we tuk thim. 
The women was huddled up anyways, scream- 
in’ wid fear. 

‘^Sez the Commandin’ Orficer whose name I 
misremember, ‘Take the women over to that 
tope av trees yonder. Get thim out av the 
camp. ’Tis no place for thim.’ 

“Quid Pummeloe was sittin’ on her beddin’- 
rowl, thryin’ to kape little Jhansi quiet. ‘Go 
off to that tope!’ sez the Orficer. ‘Go out av 
the men’s way I’ 

“ ‘Be damned av I do !’ sez Ould Pummeloe, 
an’ little Jhansi, squattin’ by her mother’s side, 
squeaks out, ‘Be damned av I do,’ tu. Thin 
Ould Pummeloe turns to the women an’ she 
sez, ‘Are ye goin’ to let the bhoys die while 
you’re picnickin’, ye sluts?’ sez she. ‘’Tis 
wather they want. Come on an’ help.’ 

“Wid that, she turns up her sleeves an’ steps 
out for a well behind the rest-camp — little 
Jhansi trottin’ behind wid a lotah an’ string, 
an’ the other women followin’ like lambs, wid 
horse-buckets and cookin’ pots. Whin all the 


" aobmmo*! faloO Jiiaw . . . lb Ju rfgooni) Si/S ** 

eaUoS fatfinigsA Ifinisno lafb nog wsibaA odo|_ stuT^^ossaM 


“But through ut all . . . went Ould Pummeloe ” 

Mezzogravure by John Andrew & Son after original by Reginald Bolles 



t- 









OF THE REGIMENT 


i6i 


things was full, Ould Pummeloe marches back 
into camp — ’twas like a battlefield wid all the 
glory missin’ — at the hid av the rigimint av 
women. 

“ ‘McKenna, me man !’ she sez, wid a voice 
on her like grand-roun's challenge, ‘tell the 
bhoys to be quiet. Ould Pummeloe’s cornin’ 
to look afther thim — wid free dhrinks.’ 

“Thin we cheered, an’ the cheerin’ in the 
lines was louder than the noise av the poor 
divils wid the sickness on thim. But not much. 

“You see, we was a new an’ raw rigimint in 
those days, an’ we cud make neither head nor 
tail av the sickness ; an’ so we was useless. The 
men was goin’ roun’ an’ about like dumb sheep, 
waitin’ for the nex’ man to fall over, an’ sayin’ 
undher their spache, ‘Fwhat is ut? In the name 
av God, fwhat is ut?’ ’Twas horrible. But 
through ut all, up an’ down, an’ down an’ up, 
wint Ould Pummeloe an’ little Jhansi — all we 
cud see av the baby, undher a dead man’s hel- 
mut wid the chin-strap swingin’ about her lit- 
tle stummick — up an’ down wid the wather an’ 
fwhat brandy there was. 

“Now an’ thin Ould Pummeloe, the tears 
runnin’ down her fat, red face, sez, ‘Me bhoys, 
me poor, dead, darlin’ bhoys!’ But, for the 
most, she was thryin’ to put heart into the 


THE DAUGHTER 


162 

men an’ kape thim stiddy; and little Jhansi 
was tellin’ thim all they wud be 'betther in the 
mornin’.’ ’Twas a thrick she’d picked up from 
bearin’ Ould Pummeloe whin Muttra was 
burnin’ out wid fever. In the mornin’ ! ’Twas 
the iverlastin’ mornin’ at St. Pether’s Gate was 
the morning for seven-an’-twenty good men; 
and twenty more was sick to the death in that 
bitter, burnin’ sun. But the women worked 
like angils as I’ve said, an’ the men like divils, 
till two doctors come down from above, and we 
was rescued. 

‘‘But, just before that, Ould Pummeloe, on 
her knees over a bhoy in my squad — right-cot 
man to me he was in the barrick- — tellin’ him 
the worrud av the Church that niver failed a 
man yet, sez, ‘Hould me up, bhoys ! I’m feelin’ 
bloody sick!’ ’Twas the sun, not the cholera, 
did ut. She misremembered she was only 
wearin’ her ould black bonnet, an’ she died wid 
‘McKenna, me man,’ houldin’ her up, an’ the 
bhoys howled whin they buried her. 

“That night, a big wind blew, an’ blew, an’ 
blew, an’ blew the tents flat. But it blew the 
cholera away an’ niver another case there was 
all the while we was waitin’ — ten days in 
quarantin’. Av you will belave me, the thrack 
av the sickness in the camp was for all the 


OF THE REGIMENT 


163 


wurruld the thrack av a man walkin’ four 
times in a figur-av-eight through the tents. 
They say ’tis the Wandherin’ Jew takes the 
cholera wid him. I believe ut. 

“An’ that/^ said Mulvaney, illogically, “is 
the cause why little Jhansi McKenna is fwhat 
she is. She was brought up by the Quarter- 
master Sergeant’s wife whin McKenna died, 
but she b’longs to B Comp’ny; and this tale 
I’m tellin’ you — wid a proper appreciashin av 
Jhansi McKenna — I’ve belted into ivry re- 
cruity av the Comp’ny as he was drafted. 
’Faith, ’twas me belted Corp’ril Slane into 
askin’ the girl!” 

“Not really?” 

“Man, I did! She’s no beauty to look at, 
but she’s Quid Pummeloe’s daughter, an’ ’tis 
my juty to provide for her. Just before Slane 
got his promotion I sez to him, ‘Slane,’ sez I, 
‘to-morrow ’twill be insubordinashin av me to 
chastise you; but, by the sowl av Quid Pum- 
meloe, who is now in glory, av you don’t give 
me your wurrud to ask Jhansi McKenna at 
wanst, ni peel the flesh off yer bones wid a 
brass huk to-night. ’Tis a dishgrace to B 
Comp’ny she’s been single so long!’ sez I. Was 
I goin’ to let a three-year-ould preshume to 
discoorse wid me — my will bein’ set? No! 


164 


THE DAUGHTER 


Slane wint an’ asked her. He’s a good bhoy is 
Slane. Wan av these days he’ll get into the 
Com’ssariat an’ dhrive a buggy wid his — 
savin’s. So I provided for Ould Pummeloe’s 
daughter ; an’ now you go along an’ dance agin 
wid her.” 

And I did. 

I felt a respect for Miss Jhansi McKenna; 
and I went to her wedding later on. 

Perhaps I will tell you about that one of 
these days. 


THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE 
ORTHERIS 



r 

THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE 
ORTHERIS 


Oh! Where would I be when my froat was dry? 
Oh! Where would I be when the bullets fly? 

Oh! Where would I be when I come to die? 

Why, 

Somewheres anigh my chum. 

If ’e’s liquor ’e’ll give me some, 

If I’m dyin’ ’e’ll ’old my ’ead, 

An’ ’e’ll write ’em ’Ome when I’m dead. — 

Gawd send us a trusty chum! 

Barrack Room Ballad. 

M y friends Mulvaney and Ortheris had 
gone on a shooting-expedition for one 
day. Learoyd was still in hospital, recovering 
from fever picked up in Burma. They sent me 
an invitation to join them, and were genuinely 
pained when I brought beer — almost enough 
beer to satisfy two Privates of the Line .... 
and Me. 

“ ’Twasn’t for that we bid you welkim, 
sorr,’’ said Mulvaney, sulkily. “ ^Twas for the 
pleasure av your company.'' 

Ortheris came to the rescue with — ‘Well, ’e 
won’t be none the worse for bringin’ liquor 
167 


i68 


THE MADNESS OF 


with ’im. We ain’t a file o’ Docks. We’re 
bloomin Tommies, ye cantankris Hirishman; 
an’ ’eres your very good ’ealth !” 

We shot all the forenoon, and killed two 
pariah-dogs, four green parrots, sitting, one 
kite by the burning-ghaut, one snake flying, 
one mud-turtle, and eight crows. Game was 
plentiful. Then we sat down to tiffin — “bull- 
mate an’ bran-bread,” Mulvaney called it — ^by 
the side of the river, and took pot shots at the 
crocodiles in the intervals of cutting up the 
food with our only pocket-knife. Then we 
drank up all the beer, and threw the bottles 
into the water and fired at them. After that, 
we eased belts and stretched ourselves on the 
warm sand and smoked. We were too lazy to 
continue shooting. 

Ortheris heaved a big sigh, as he lay on his 
stomach with his head between his fists. Then 
he swore quietly into the blue sky. 

“F what’s that for?” said Mulvaney. “Have 
ye not dhrunk enough?” 

“Tott’nim Court Road, an’ a gal I fancied 
there. Wot’s the good of sodgerin’?” 

“Orth’ris, me son,” said Mulvaney, hastily, 
“ ’tis more than likely you’ve got throuble in 
your inside wid the beer. I feel that way me- 
silf whin my liver gets rusty.” 


PRIVATE ORTHERIS 169 

» 

Ortheris went on slowly, not heeding the 
interruption — 

‘‘Fm a Tommy — a bloomin’, eight-anna, 
dog-stealin’ Tommy, with a number instead of 
a decent name. Wot’s the good o’ me? If I 
’ad a stayed at ’Ome, I might a married that 
gal and a kep’ a little shorp in the ’Ammer- 
smith ’Igh. — ‘S. Orth’ris, Prac-ti-cal Taxi- 
der-mist.’ With a stuff’ fox, like they ’as in 
the Haylesbury Dairies, in the winder, an’ a 
little case of blue and yaller glass-heyes, an’ 
a little wife to call ‘shorp!’ ‘shorp I’ when the 
door-bell run. As it his, I’m on’y a Tommy — 
a Bloomin’, Gawd-forsaken, Beer-swillin’ 
Tommy. ‘Rest on your harms — 'versed, 
Stan’ at — hease; 'Shun. ’Verse — harms. 
Right an’ lef’ — tarrn. Slow — march. ’Alt — 
front. Rest on your harms — 'versed. With 
blank-cartridge — load.' An’ that’s the end o’ 
me.” He was quoting fragments from Fu- 
neral Parties’ Orders. 

“Stop ut I” shouted Mulvaney. “Whin 
you’ve fired into nothin’ as often as me, over 
a better man than yoursilf, you will not make 
a mock av thim orders. ’Tis worse than 
whistlin’ the Dead March in barricks. An’ 
you full as a tick, an’ the sun cool, an’ all an’ 
all ! I take shame for you. You’re no better 


170 


THE MADNESS OF 


than a Pagin — you an’ your firin’-parties an’ 
your glass-eyes. Won’t you stop ut, sorr ?” 

What could I do? Could I tell Ortheris 
anything that he did not know of the pleasures 
of his life? I was not a Chaplain nor a Sub- 
altern, and Ortheris had a right to speak as he 
thought fit. 

"‘Let him run, Mulvaney,” I said. ‘Tt’s the 
beer.” 

‘‘No! ’Tisn’t the beer,” said Mulvaney. “I 
know fwhat’s cornin’. He’s tuk this way now 
an’ again, an’ it’s bad — it’s bad — for I’m fond 
av the bhoy.” 

Indeed, Mulvaney seemed needlessly anx- 
ious ; but I knew that he looked after Ortheris 
in a fatherly way. 

“Let me talk, let me talk,” said Ortheris, 
dreamily. “D’you stop your parrit screamin’ 
of a ’ot day, when the cage is a-cookin’ ’is pore 
little pink toes orf, Mulvaney?” 

“Pink toes! D’ye mane to say you’ve pink 
toes undher your bullswools, ye blandan- 
derin’,” — Mulvaney gathered himself together 
for a terrific denunciation — “school-misthress ! 
Pink toes ! How much Bass wid the label did 
that ravin’ child dhrink?” 

“ ’Tain’t Bass, said Ortheris. “It’s a bit- 
terer beer nor that. It’s ’omesickness !” 


PRIVATE ORTHERIS 


171 

“Hark to him! An’ he goin’ Home in the 
Sherapis in the inside av four months 1” 

“I don’t care. It’s all one to me. ’Ow d’you 
know I ain’t ’fraid o’ dyin’ ’fore I gets my dis- 
charge paipers ?” He recommenced, in a sing- 
song voice, the Orders. 

I had never seen this side of Ortheris’s char- 
acter before, but evidently Mulvaney had, and 
attached serious importance to it. While Or- 
theris babbled, with his head on his arms, 
Mulvaney whispered to me — 

“He’s always tuk this way whin he’s been 
checked overmuch by the childher they make 
Sarjints nowadays. That an’ havin’ nothin’ 
to do. I can’t make ut out anyways.” 

“Well, what does it matter? Let him talk 
himself through.” 

Ortheris began singing a parody of “The 
Ramrod Corps,” full of cheerful allusions to 
battle, murder, and sudden death. He looked 
out across the river as he sang; and his face 
was quite strange to me. Mulvaney caught me 
by the elbow to ensure attention. 

“Matther? It matthers everything! ’Tis 
some sort av fit that’s on him. I’ve seen ut. 
’Twill hould him all this night, an’ in the mid- 
dle av it he’ll get out av his cot an’ go rakin’ 
in the rack for his ’coutremints. Thin he’ll 


172 


THE MADNESS OF 


come over to me an’ say, ‘I’m goin’ to Bombay. 
Answer for me in the mornin’.’ Thin me an’ 
him will fight as we’ve done before — him to go 
an’ me to hould him — an’ so we’ll both come 
on the books for disturbin’ in barricks. I’ve 
belted him, an’ I’ve bruk his head, an’ I’ve 
talked to him, but ’tis no manner av use whin 
the fit’s on him. He’s as good a bhoy as ever 
stepped whin his mind’s clear. I know fwhat’s 
cornin’, though, this night in barricks. Lord 
send he doesn’t loose on me whin I rise to 
knock him down. ’Tis that that’s in my mind 
day an’ night.” 

This put the case in a much less pleasant 
light, and fully accounted for Mulvaney’s anx- 
iety. He seemed to be trying to coax Ortheris 
out of the fit; for he shouted down the bank 
where the boy was lying — 

“Listen now, you wid the ‘pore pink toes’ 
an’ the glass eyes! Did you shwim the Irri- 
waddy at night, behin’ me, as a bhoy shud ; or 
were you hidin’ under a bed, as you was at 
Ahmid Kheyl?” 

This was at once a gross insult and a direct 
lie, and Mulvaney meant it to bring on a fight. 
But Ortheris seemed shut up in some sort of 
trance. He answered slowly, without a sign 
of irritation, in the same cadenced voice as he 
had used for his firing-party orders — 


PRIVATE ORTHERIS 


173 


**Hi swum the Irriwaddy in the night, as 
you know, for to take the town of Lungtung- 
pen, nakid an’ without fear. Hand where I 
was at Ahmed Kheyl you know, and four 
bloomin’ Pathans know too. But that was 
summat to do, an’ I didn’t think o’ dyin’. Now 
I’m sick to go ’Ome — go ’Ome — go ’Ome. No, 
I ain’t mammy-sick because my uncle brung 
me up, but I’m sick for London agin; sick for 
the sounds of ’er, an’ the sights of ’er, and the 
stinks of ’er ; orange peel and hasphalte an’ gas 
cornin’ in over Vaux’all Bridge. Sick for the 
rail goin’ down to Box’Ill, with your gal on 
your knee an’ a new clay pipe in your face. 
That, an’ the Stran’ lights where you knows 
ev’ry one, an’ the Copper that takes you up is 
a old friend that tuk you up before, when you 
was a little, smitchy boy lying loose ’tween the 
Temple an’ the Dark Harches. No bloomin’ 
guard-mountin’, no bloomin’ rottenstone, nor 
khaki, an’ yourself your own master with a gal 
to take an’ see the Humaners practicin’ a- 
hookin’ dead corpses out of the Serpentine o’ 
Sundays. An’ I lef’ all that for to serve the 
Widder beyond the seas, where there ain’t no 
women and there ain’t no liquor worth ’avin’, 
and there ain’t nothin’ to see, nor do, nor say, 
nor feel, nor think. Lord love you, Stanley 


174 


THE MADNESS OF 


Orth'ris, but you’re a bigger bloomin’ fool 
than the rest o’ the reg’ment and Mulvaney 
wired together! There’s the Widder sittin’ 
at ’Ome with a gold crownd on ’er ’ead; and 
’ere am Hi, Stanley Orth’ris, the Widder’s 
property, a rottin’ fool!” 

His voice rose at the end of the sentence, 
and he wound up with a six-shot Anglo-Ver- 
nacular oath. Mulvaney said nothing, but 
looked at me as if he expected that I could 
bring peace to poor Ortheris’ troubled brain. 

I remembered once at Rawal Pindi having 
seen a man, nearly mad with drink, sobered 
by being made a fool of. Some regiments 
may know what I mean. I hoped that we 
might slake off Ortheris in the same way, 
though he was perfectly sober. So I said — 

‘‘What’s the use of grousing there, and 
speaking against The Widow?” 

“I didn’t I” said Ortheris. “S’elp me. Gawd, 
I never said a word agin ’er, an’ I wouldn’t — 
not if I was to desert this minute!” 

Here was my opening. “Well, you meant 
to, anyhow. What’s the use of cracking-on 
for nothing? Would you slip it now if you 
got the chance?” 

“On’y try me!” said Ortheris, jumping to 
his feet as if he had been stung. 


PRIVATE ORTHERIS 


175 


Mulvaney jumped too. “Fwhat are you go- 
ing to do ?” said he. 

‘‘Help Ortheris down to Bombay or Kara- 
chi, whichever he likes. You can report that 
he separated from you before tiffin, and left 
his gun on the bank here!” 

“Fm to report that — am I ?” said Mulvaney, 
slowly. “Very well. If Orth’ris manes to de- 
sert now, and will desert now, an’ you, sorr, 
who have been a frind to me an’ to him, will 
help him to ut, I, Terence Mulvaney, on my 
oath which I’ve never bruk yet, will report as 
you say. But” — here he stepped up to Orth- 
eris, and shook the stock of the fowling-piece 
in his face — “your fists help you, Stanley 
Orth’ris, if ever I come across you agin!” 

“I don’t care!” said Ortheris. “I’m sick o’ 
this dorg’s life. Give me a chanst. Don’t play 
with me. Le’ me go!” 

“Strip,” said I, “and change with me, and 
then ril tell you what to do.” 

I hoped that the absurdity of this would 
check Ortheris; but he had kicked off his am- 
munition boots and got rid of his tunic almost 
before I had loosed my shirt-collar. Mulva- 
ney gripped me by the arm — 

“The fit’s on him: the fit’s workin’ on him 
still ! By my Honor and Sowl, we shall be ac- 


176 


THE MADNESS OF 


cessiry to a desartion yet. Only, twenty-eight 
days, as you say, sorr, or fifty-six, but think 
o’ the shame — the black shame to him an’ me !” 
I had never seen Mulvaney so excited. 

But Ortheris was quite calm, and, as soon as 
he had exchanged clothes with me, and I stood 
up a Private of the Line, he said shortly, 
“Now! Come on. What nex’? D’ye mean 
fair? What must I do to get out o’ this ’ere 
a-Hell?” 

I told him that, if he would wait for two or 
three hours near the river, I would ride into 
the Station and come back with one hundred 
rupees. He would, with that money in his 
pocket, walk to the nearest side-station on the 
line, about five miles away, and would there 
take a first-class ticket for Karachi. Knowing 
that he had no money on him when he went 
out shooting, his regiment would not immedi- 
ately wire to the sea-ports, but would hunt for 
him in the native villages near the river. Fur- 
ther, no one would think of seeking a deserter 
in a first-class carriage. At Karachi, he was 
to buy white clothes and ship, if he could, on 
a cargo-steamer. 

Here he broke in. If I helped him to Ka- 
rachi, he would arrange all the rest. Then I 
ordered him to wait where he was until it was 


PRIVATE ORTHERIS 


177 


dark enough for me to ride into the station 
without my dress being noticed. Now God in 
His wisdom had made the heart of the British 
Soldier, who is very often an unlicked ruffian, 
as soft as the heart of a little child, in order 
that he may believe in and follow his officers 
into tight and nasty places. He does not so 
readily come to believe in a ‘‘civilian,” but, 
when he does, he believes implicitly and like a 
dog. I had had the honor of the friendship of 
Private Ortheris, at intervals, for more than 
three years, and we had dealt with each other 
as man by man. Consequently, he considered 
that all my words were true, and not spoken 
lightly. 

Mulvaney and I left him in the high grass 
near the river-bank, and went away, still keep- 
ing to the high grass, toward my horse. The 
shirt scratched me horribly. 

We waited nearly two hours for the dusk to 
fall and allow me to ride off. We spoke of 
Ortheris in whispers, and strained our ears to 
catch any sound from the spot where we had 
left him. But we heard nothing except the 
wind in the plume-grass. 

“I’ve bruk his head,” said Mulvaney, earn- 
estly, “time an’ again. I’ve nearly kilt him 
wid the belt, an’ yet I can’t knock thim fits out 
av his soft head. No ! An’ he’s not soft, for 


178 


THE MADNESS OF 


he’s reasonable an’ likely by natur’. Fwhat is 
ut? Is ut his breedin’ which is nothin’, or his 
edukashin which he niver got? You that think 
ye know things, answer me that.” 

But I found no answer. I was wondering 
how long Ortheris, in the bank of the river, 
would hold out, and whether I should be 
forced to help him to desert, as I had given my 
word. 

Just as the dusk shut down and, with a very 
heavy heart, I was beginning to saddle up my 
horse, we heard wild shouts from the river. 

The devils had departed from Private Stan- 
ley Ortheris, No. 22639, ^ Company. The 
loneliness, the dusk, and the waiting had 
driven them out as I had hoped. We set off at 
the double and found him plunging about 
wildly through the grass, with his coat off — 
my coat off, I mean. He was calling for us 
like a madman. 

When we reached him he was dripping with 
perspiration, and trembling like a startled 
horse. We had great difficulty in soothing him. 
He complained that he was in civilian kit, and 
wanted to tear my clothes off his body. I or- 
dered him to strip, and we made a second ex- 
change as quickly as possible. 

The rasp of his own ‘‘greyback” shirt and 
the squeak of his boots seemed to bring him to 


PRIVATE ORTHERIS 


179 


himself. He put his hands before his eyes and 
said — 

“Wot was it? I ain’t mad, I ain’t sunstrook, 
an’ I’ve bin an’ gone an’ said, an’ bin an’ gone 
an’ done Wot ’ave I bin an’ done!” 

“Fwhat have you done?” said Mulvaney. 
“you’ve dishgraced yourself — though that’s no 
matter. You’ve dishgraced B Comp’ny an’ 
worst av all, you’ve dishgraced Me! Me that 
taught you how for to walk abroad like a man 
— whin you was a dhirty little, fish-backed lit- 
tle, whimperin’ little recruity. As you are 
now, Stanley Orth’ris!” 

Ortheris said nothing for a while. Then he 
unslung his belt, heavy with the badges of half 
a dozen regiments that his own had lain with, 
and handed it over to Mulvaney. 

“I’m too little for to mill you, Mulvaney,” 
said he, “an’ you’ve strook me before ; but you 
can take an’ cut me in two with this ’ere if you 
like.” 

Mulvaney turned to me. 

“Lave me to talk to him, sorr,” said Mul- 
vaney. 

I left, and on my way home thought a good 
deal over Ortheris in particular, and my friend 
Private Thomas Atkins whom I love, in gen- 
eral. 

But I could not come to any conclusion of 
any kind whatever. 



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THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE 



























THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE 


Hit a man an’ help a woman, an’ ye can’t be far 
wrong anyways . — Maxims of Private Mulvaney. 

T he Inexpressibles gave a ball. They bor- 
rowed a seven-pounder from the Gun- 
ners, and wreathed it with laurels, and made 
the dancing-floor plate-glass and provided a 
supper, the like of which had never been eaten 
before, and set two sentries at the door of the 
room to hold the trays of programme-cards. 
My friend. Private Mulvaney, was one of the 
sentries, because he was the tallest man in the 
regiment. When the dance was fairly started 
the sentries were released, and Private Mul- 
vaney went to curry favor with the Mess Ser- 
geant in charge of the supper. Whether the 
Mess Sergeant gave or Mulvaney took, I can- 
not say. All that I am certain of is that, at 
supper-time, I found Mulvaney with Private 
Ortheris, two-thirds of a ham, a loaf of bread, 
half a pdte-de-foie-gras, and two magnums of 
champagne, sitting on the roof of my carriage. 
As I came up I heard him saying — 

183 


184 


THE GOD FROM 


^Traise be a danst doesn’t come as often as 
Ord’ly-room, or, by this an’ that, Orth’ris, me 
son, I wud be the dishgrace av the,rig-mint in- 
stid av the ’brightest jool in uts crown.” 

''Hand the Colonel’s pet noosance,” said 
Ortheris. ‘‘But wot makes you curse your ra- 
tions? This ’ere fizzy stuff’s good enough.” 

“Stuff, ye oncivilized pagin! ’Tis cham- 
pagne we’re dhrinkin’ now. ’Tisn’t that I am 
set ag’in. ’Tis this quare stuff wid the little 
bits av black leather in it. I misdoubt I will 
be distressin’ly sick wid it in the mornin’. 
Fwhat is ut?” 

“Goose liver,” I said, climbing on the top of 
the carriage, for I knew that it was better to 
sit out with Mulvaney than to dance many 
dances. 

“Goose liver is ut?” said Mulvaney. “Faith, 
I’m thinkin’ thim that makes it wud do bet- 
ther to cut up the Colonel. He carries a power 
av liver undher his right arrum whin the 
days are warm an’ the nights chill. He wud 
give thim tons an’ tons av liver. ’Tis he sez 
so. ‘I’m all liver to-day,’ sez he; an’ wid that 
he ordhers me ten days C. B. for as moild a 
dhrink as iver a good sodger took betune his 
teeth.” 

“That was when ’e wanted for to wash ’is- 


THE MACHINE 


185 

self in the Fort Ditch,” Ortheris explained. 
‘‘Said there was too much beer in the Barrack 
water-butts for a God-fearing man. You was 
lucky in gettin’ orf with wot you did, Mul- 
vaney.” 

“Say you so? Now Fm pershuaded I was 
cruel hard trated, seein’ fwhat Fve done for 
the likes av him in the days when my eyes 
were wider opin than they are now. Man 
alive, for the Colonel to whip me on the peg in 
that way! Me that have saved the repitation 
av a ten times better man than him! ’Twas ne- 
farious — an’ that manes a power av evil!” 

“Never mind the nefariousness,” I said. 
“Whose reputation did you save ?” 

“More’s the pity, ’twasn’t my own, but I 
tuk more trouble wid ut than av ut was. 
’Twas just my way, messin’ wid fwhat was no 
business av mine. Hear now!” He settled 
himself at ease on the top of the carriage. “I’ll 
tell you all about ut. Av coorse I will name 
no names, for there’s wan that’s an orf’cer’s 
lady now, that was in ut, and no more will I 
name places, for a man is thracked by a place.” 

“Eyah!” said Ortheris, lazily, “but this is a 
mixed story wot’s cornin’.” 

“Wanst upon a time, as the childer-books 
say, I was a recruity.” 


i86 


THE GOD FROM 


‘'Was you though?” said Ortheris; “now 
that’s extryordinary !” 

“Orth’ris,” said Mulvaney, “av you opin 
thim lips av yours again, I will, savin’ your 
presince, sorr, take you by the slack av your 
trousers an’ heave you.” 

“I’m mum,” said Ortheris. “Wot ’appened 
when you was a recruity?” 

“I was a betther recruity than you iver was 
or will be, but that’s neither here nor there. 
Thin I became a man, an’ the divil of a man I 
was fifteen years ago. They called me Buck 
Mulvaney in thim days, an’, begad, I tuk a 
woman’s eye. I did that ! Ortheris, ye scrub, 
fwhat are ye sniggerin’ at ? Do you misdoubt 
me?” 

“Devil a doubt!” said Ortheris; “but I’ve 
’eard summat like that before !” 

Mulvaney dismissed the impertinence with 
a lofty wave of his hand and continued — 

“And’ the orf’cers av the rig-mint I was in 
in thim days was orf-cers — gran’ men, wid a 
manner on ’em, an’ a way wid ’em such as is 
not made these days — all but wan — wan o’ the 
capt’ns. A bad dhrill, a wake voice, an’ a limp 
leg — thim three things are the signs av a bad 
man. You bear that in your mind, Orth’ris, 
me son. 


THE MACHINE 


187 

the Colonel av the rig’mint had a 
daughter — wan av thim lamblike, bleatin’, 
pick-me-up-an’-carry-me-or-Fll-die gurls such 
as was made for the natural prey av men like 
the Capt’n, who was iverlastin’ payin’ coort to 
her, though the Colonel he said time an’ over, 
‘Kape out av the brute’s way, my dear.’ But 
he niver had the heart for to send her away 
from the throuble, bein’ as he was a widower, 
an’ she their wan child.” 

‘^Stop a minute, Mulvaney,” said I; “how 
in the world did you come to know these 
things?” 

“How did I come?” said Mulvaney, with 
a scornful grunt; “bekaze I’m turned durin’ 
the Quane’s pleasure to a lump av wood, 
lookin’ out straight forninst me, wid a — a — 
candelabbrum in my hand, for you to pick your 
cards out av, must I not see nor feel? Av 
coorse I du ! Up my back, an’ in my boots, an’ 
in the short hair av the neck — that’s where I 
kape my eyes whin I’m on duty an’ the reg’lar 
wans are fixed. Know! Take my word for 
it, sorr, ivrything an’ a great dale more is 
known in a rig’mint ; or fwhat wud be the use 
av a Mess Sargint, or a Sargint’s wife doin’ 
wet-nurse to the Major’s baby? To reshume. 
He was a bad dhrill was this Capt’n — a rotten 


i88 


THE GOD FROM 


bad dhrlll — an’ whin first I ran me eye over 
him, I sez to myself; ^My Militia bantam!’ I 
sez, ^My cock av a Gosport dunghill’ — ’twas 
from Portsmouth he came to us — ^there’s 
combs to be cut,’ sez I, ^an’ by the grace av 
God, ’tis Terence Mulvaney will cut thim.’ 

“So he wint menowderin’, and minanderin’, 
an’ blandandhering roun’ an’ about the 
Colonel’ daughter, an’ she, poor innocint, look- 
in’ at him like a Comm’ssariat bullock looks at 
the Comp’ny cook. He’d a dhirty little scrub 
av a black moustache, an’ he twisted an’ 
turned ivry wurrd he used as av he found ut 
too sweet for to spit out. Eyah! He was a 
tricky man an’ a liar by natur’. Some are 
born so. He was wan. I knew he was over 
his belt in money borrowed from natives, be- 
sides a lot av other matthers which, in regard 
for your presince, sorr, I will oblitherate. A 
little av fwhat I knew, the Colonel knew, for 
he wud have none av him, an’ that, I’m think- 
in’, by fwhat happened aftherward, the Capt’in 
knew. 

“Wan day, bein’ mortial idle, or they wud 
never ha’ thried ut, the rig’mint gave amsure 
theatricals — orf’cers an’ orf’cers’ ladies. 
You’ve seen the likes time an’ again, sorr, an’ 
poor fun ’tis for them that sit in the back row 


THE MACHINE 


189 


an’ stamp wid their boots for the honor av the 
rig’mint. I was told off for to shif’ the scenes, 
haulin’ up this an’ draggin’ down that. Light 
work ut was, wid lashins av beer and the gurl 
that dhressed the orf’cers’ ladies — ^but she died 
in Aggra twelve years gone, an’ my tongue’s 
gettin’ the betther av me. They was actin’ a 
play thing called Sweethearts, which you may 
ha’ heard av, an’ the Colonel’s daughter she 
was a lady’s maid. The Capt’n was a boy 
called Broom — Spread Broom was his name 
in the play. Thin I saw — ut come out in the 
actin’ — fwhat I niver saw before, an’ that was 
that he was no gentleman. They was too 
much together, thim two, a-whisperin’ behind 
the scenes I shifted, an’ some av what they 
said I heard; for I was death — ^blue death an’ 
ivy — on the comb-cuttin’. He was iverlast- 
in’Iy oppressing her to fall in wid some sneak- 
in’ schame av his, an’ she was thryin’ to stand 
out against him, but not as though she was set 
in her will. I wonder now in thim days that 
my ears did not grow a yard on me head wid 
list’nin’. But I looked straight forninst me an’ 
hauled up this an’ dragged down that, such as 
was my duty, an’ the orf’cers’ ladies sez one 
to another, thinkin’ I was out av listen-reach: 
Twhat an obligin’ young man is this Corp’ril 


190 


THE GOD FROM 


Mulvaney !’ I was a Corp’ril then. I was re- 
juced aftherwarcl, but, no matther, I was a 
Corp’ril wanst. 

‘‘Well, this Sweethearts' business wint on 
like most amshure theatricals, an’ barrin’ 
fwhat I suspicioned, ’twasn’t till the dhress- 
rehearsal that I saw for certain that thim two 
— he the blackguard, an’ she no wiser than she 
should ha’ been — had put up an evasion.” 

“A what?” said I. 

“E-vasion! Fwhat you call an elopemint. 
E-vasion I calls it, bekaze, exceptin’ whin ’tis 
right an’ natural an’ proper, ’tis wrong an’ 
dhirty to steal a man’s wan child she not 
knowin’ her own mind. There was a Sargint 
in the Comm’ssariat who set my face upon 
e-vasions. I’ll tell you about that” — 

“Stick to the bloomin’ Captains, Mulvaney,” 
said Ortheris; “Comm’ssariat Sargints is 
low.” 

Mulvaney accepted the amendment and 
went on : — 

“Now I knew that the Colonel was no fool, 
any more than me, for I was hild the smartest 
man in the rig’mint, an’ the Colonel was the 
best orf’cer commandin’ in Asia; so fwhat he 
said an’ I said was a mortial truth. We knew 
that the Capt’n was bad, but, for reasons 


THE MACHINE 


191 

which I have already oblitherated, I knew 
more than me Colonel. I wud ha’ rolled out 
his face wid the butt av my gun before per- 
mittin’ av him to steal the gurl. Saints knew 
av he wud ha’ married her, and av he didn’t 
she wud be in great tormint, an’ the divil av 
a ‘scandal.’ But I niver sthruck, niver raised 
me hand on my shuperior orf ’cer ; an’ that was 
a merricle now I come to considher it.” 

“Mulvaney, the dawn’s risin’,” said Orth- 
eris, “an’ we’re no nearer ’ome than we was 
at the beginnin.’ Lend me your pouch. Mine’s 
all dust.” 

Mulvaney pitched his pouch over, and filled 
his pipe afresh. 

“So the dhress-rehearsal came to an end, an’ 
bekaze I was curious, I stayed behind whin the 
scene-shiftin’ was ended, an’ I shud ha’ been in 
barricks, lyin’ as flat as a toad under a painted 
cottage thing. They was talkin’ in whispers, 
an’ she was shiverin’ an’ gaspin’ like a fresh- 
hukked fish. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the 
hang av the manewvers ?’ sez he, or wurrds to 
that effec’, as the coort-martial sez. ‘Sure as 
death,’ sez she, ‘but I misdoubt ’tis cruel hard 
on my father.’ ‘Damn your father,’ sez he, or 
anyways ’twas fwhat he thought, ‘the arrange- 
ment is as clear as mud. Jungi will drive the 


192 


THE GOD FROM 


carriage afther all’s over, an’ you come to the 
station, cool an’ aisy, in time for the two 
o’clock thrain, where I’ll be wid your kit.’ 
‘Faith,’ thinks I to myself, ‘thin there’s a ayah 
in the business tu !’ 

“A powerful bad thing is a ayah. Don’t 
you niver have any thruck wid wan. Thin he 
began sootherin’ her, an’ all the orf’cers an’ 
orf’cers’ ladies left, an’ they put out the lights. 
To explain the theory av the flight, as they say 
at Muskthry, you must understand that afther 
this Sweethearts' nonsinse was ended, there 
was another little bit av a play called Couples 
— some kind av couple or another. The gurl 
was actin’ in this, but not the man. I sus- 
picioned he’d go to the station wid the gurl’s 
kit at the end av the first piece. ’Twas the kit 
that flusthered me, for I knew for a Capt’n to 
go trapesing about the impire wid the Lord 
knew what av a truso on his arrum, was ne- 
farious, an’ wud be worse than easin’ the flag, 
so far as the talk aftherward wint.” 

“ ’Old on, Mulvaney. Wot’s truso f” said 
Ortheris. 

“You’re an oncivilized man, me son. Whin 
a gurl’s married, all her kit an’ ’coutrements 
are truso, which manes weddin’-portion. An’ 
’tis the same whin she’s runnin’ away, even 


THE MACHINE 


193 


wid the biggest blackguard on the Arrmy List. 

‘‘So I made my plan av campaign. The 
Colonel’s house was a good two miles away. 
‘Dennis/ sez I to my color-sargint, ‘av you 
love me lend me your kyart, for me heart is 
bruk an’ me feet is sore wid trampin’ to and 
from this foolishness at the Gaff.’ An’ Dennis 
lent ut, wid a rampin’, stampin’ red stallion in 
the shafts. Whin they was all settled down to 
their Sweethearts for the first scene, which was 
a long wan, I slips outside and into the kyart. 
Mother av Hivin ! but I made that horse walk, 
an’ we came into the Colonel’s compound as 
the divil wint through Athlone — in standin’ 
leps. There was no one there excipt the ser- 
vints, an’ I wint round to the back an’ found 
the girl’s ayah. 

“ ‘Ye black brazen Jezebel,’ sez I, ‘sellin’ 
your masther’s honor for five rupees — pack up 
all the Miss Sahib’s kit an’ look slippy ! Capfn 
Sahib's order,’ sez I. ‘Going to the station we 
are,’ I sez, an’ wid that I laid my finger to my 
nose an’ looked the schamin’ sinner I was. 

“ *Bot? acchy/ says she; so I knew that she 
was in le business, an’ I piled up all the sweet 
talk I’d iver learned in the bazars on to this 
she-bullock, an’ prayed av her to put all the 
quick she knew into the thing. While she 


194 


THE GOD FROM 


packed, I stud outside an’ sweated, for I was 
wanted for to shif’ the second scene. I tell 
you, a young gurl’s e-vasion manes as much 
baggage as a rig’mint on the line av march! 
'Saints help Dennis’s springs,’ thinks I, as I 
bundled the stuff into the thrap, 'for I’ll have 
no mercy!’ 

" 'I’m cornin’ too,’ says the ayah. 

" 'No, you don’t,’ sez I, 'later — pechy! You 
baito where you are. I’ll pechy come an’ bring 
you sartj along with me, you maraudin’’ — 
niver mind fwhat I called her. 

"Thin I wint for the Gaff, an’ by the spe- 
cial ordher av Providence, for I was doin’ a 
good work you will ondersthand, Dennis’s 
springs hild toight. 'Now, whin the Capt’n 
goes for that kit,’ thinks I, 'he’ll be throubled.’ 
At the end av Sweethearts off the Capt’n runs 
in his kyart to the Colonel’s house, an’ I sits 
down on the steps and laughs. Wanst an’ 
again I slipped in to see how the little piece 
was goin’, an’ whin ut was near endin’ I 
stepped out all among the carriages an’ sings 
out very softly, 'Jungi!’ Wid that a carr’ge 
began to move, an’ I waved to the dhriver. 
'Hitherao!' sez I, an’ he hither aoed till I 
judged he was at proper distance, an’ thin I 
tuk him, fair an’ square betune the eyes, all I 


THE MACHINE 


195 


knew for good or bad, an’ he dhropped wid a 
guggle like the canteen beer-engine whin ut’s 
runnin’ low. Thin I ran to the kyart an’ tuk 
out all the kit an’ piled it into the carr’ge, the 
sweat runnin’ down my face in dhrops. ‘Go 
home,’ sez I, to the sais; ‘you’ll hnd a man 
close here. Very sick he is. Take him away, 
an’ av you iver say wan wurrd about fwhat 
you’ve dekkoed, I’ll marrow you till your own 
wife won’t sumjao who you are!’ Thin I 
heard the stampin’ av feet at the ind av the 
play, an’ I ran in to let down the curtain. Whin 
they all came out the gurl thried to hide her- 
self behind wan av the pillars, an’ sez ‘Jungi’ 
in a voice that wouldn’t ha’ scared a hare. I 
run over to Jungi’s carr’ge an’ tuk up the 
lousy old horse-blanket on the box, wrapped 
my head an’ the rest av me in ut, an’ dhrove 
up to where she was. 

“ ‘Miss Sahib,’ sez I; ‘going to the station? 
Captain Sahib's order!’ an’ widout a sign she 
jumped in all among her own kit. 

“I laid to an’ dhruv like steam to the 
Colonel’s house before the Colonel was there, 
an’ she screamed an’ I thought she was goin’ 
off. Out comes the ayah, saying all sorts av 
things about the Capt’n havin’ come for the 
kit an’ gone to the station. 


196 


THE GOD FROM 


‘Take out the luggage, you divil,’ sez I, ‘or 
ril murther you !’ 

“The lights av the thraps people cornin’ 
from the Gaff was showin’ across the parade 
ground, an’, ‘by this an’ that, the way thim two 
women worked at the bundles an’ thrunks was 
a caution! I was dyin’ to help, but, seein’ I 
didn’t want to be known, I sat wid the blanket 
roun’ me an’ coughed an’ thanked the Saints 
there was no moon that night. 

“Whin all was in the house again, I niver 
asked for hukshish but dhruv tremenjus in the 
opp’site way from the other carr’ge an’ put out 
my lights. Presintly, I saw a naygur-man wal- 
lowin’ in the road. I slipped down before I 
got to him, for I suspicioned Providence was 
wid me all through that night. ’Twas Jungi, 
his nose smashed in flat, all dumb sick as you 
please. Dennis’s man must have tilted him out 
av the thrap. Whin he came to, ‘Hutt !’ sez I, 
but he began to howl. 

“ ‘You black lump av dirt,’ I sez, ‘is this the 
way you dhrive your gharri? That tikka has 
been owin* and fere-owin* all over the bloomin’ 
country this whole bloomin’ night, an’ you as 
miit-walla as Davey’s sow. Get up, you hog!’ 
sez I, louder, for I heard the wheels av a thrap 
in the dark; ‘get up and light your lamps, or 


THE MACHINE 


197 

you’ll be run into!’ This was on the road to 
the Railway Station. 

‘‘ Twhat the divil’s this ?” sez the Capt’n’s 
voice in the dhark, an’ I could judge he was in 
a lather av rage. 

'Gharri dhriver here, dhrunk, sorr, sez I ; 
Tve found his gharri sthrayin’ about canton- 
mints, an’ now I’ve found him.’ 

‘‘ "Oh !’ sez the Capt’n ; "fwhat’s his name ?’ 
I stooped down an’ pretended to listen. 

"" "He sez his name’s Jungi, sorr,’ sez I. 

"" "Hould my harse,’ sez the Capt’n to his 
man, an’ wid that he gets down wid the whip 
and lays into Jungi, just mad wid rage an’ 
swearin’ like the scutt he was. 

""I thought, afther a while, he wud kill the 
man, so I sez : — "Stop, sorr, or you’ll murdher 
him!’ That dhrew all his fire on me, an’ he 
cursed me into Blazes, an’ out again. I stud 
to attenshin an’ saluted : — "Sorr,’ sez I, "av ivry 
man in this wurrld had his rights. I’m thinkin’ 
that more than wan wud be beaten to a jelly 
for this night’s work — that niver came off at 
all, sorr, as you see?’ "Now,’ thinks I to my- 
self, "Terrence Mulvaney, you’ve cut your own 
throat, for he’ll sthrike, an’ you’ll knock him 
down for the good av his sowl an’ your own 
iverlastin’ dishgrace !’ 


198 


THE GOD FROM 


‘'But the Capt’n never said a single wurrd. 
He choked where he stud, an’ thin he went into 
his thrap widout sayin’ good-night, an’ I wint 
back to the barricks.” 

“And then?” said Ortheris and I together. 

“That was all,” said Mulvaney; “niver an- 
other word did I hear av the whole thing. All 
I know was that there was no e-vasion, an’ 
that was fwhat I wanted. Now, I put ut to 
you, sorr, is ten days’ C.B. a fit an’ proper 
tratement for a man who has behaved as me ?” 

“Well, any’ow,” said Ortheris, “tweren’t 
this ’ere Colonel’s daughter, an’ you was 
blazin’ copped when you tried to wash in the 
Fort Ditch.” 

“That,” said Mulvaney, finishing the cham- 
pagne “is a shuparfluous an’ impert’nint ob- 
servation.” 


PRIVATE LEAROYD’S STORY 


i 


4 


PRIVATE LEAROYD’S STORY 

And he told a tale . — Chronicles of Gautama Buddha. 

F ar from the haunts of Company Officers 
who insist upon kit-inspections, far from 
keen-nosed Sergeants who sniff the pipe 
stuffed into the bedding-roll, two miles from 
the tumult of the barracks, lies the Trap. It is 
an old dry well, shadowed by a twisted pipal 
tree and fenced with high grass. Here, in the 
years gone by, did Private Ortheris establish 
his depot and menagerie for such possessions, 
dead and living, as could not safely be intro- 
duced to the barrack-room. Here were gath- 
ered Houdin pullets, and fox-terriers of un- 
doubted pedigree and more than doubtful own- 
ership, for Ortheris was an inveterate poacher 
and preeminent among a regiment of neat- 
handed dog-stealers. 

Never again will the long lazy evenings re- 
turn wherein Ortheris, whistling softly, moved 
surgeon-wise among the captives of his craft 
at the bottom of the well ; when Learoyd sat in 


201 


•202 PRIVATE LEAROYD’S STORY 


the niche, giving sage counsel on the manage- 
ment of “tykes,” and Mulvaney, from the 
crook of the overhanging pipah waved his 
enormous boots in benediction above our 
heads, delighting us with tales of Love and 
War, and strange experiences of cities and 
men. 

Ortheris — landed at last in the “little stuff 
bird-shop” for which your soul longed ; J^ea- 
royd — ^back again in the smoky, stone-ribbed 
North, amid the clang of the Bradford looms ; 
Mulvaney — grizzled, tender, and very wise 
Ulysses, sweltering on the earthwork of a Cen- 
tral India line — judge if I have forgotten old 
days in the Trap! 

Orth’ris as alius thinks he knaws more than 
other foaks, said she wasn’t a real laady, but 
nobbut a Hewrasian. I don’t gainsay as her 
culler was a bit doosky like. But she was a 
laady. Why, she rode iv a carriage, an’ good 
’osses, too, an’ her ’air was that oiled as you 
could see your face in it, an’ she wore dimond 
rings an’ a goold chain, an’ silk an’ satin 
dresses as mun ’a’ cost a deal, for it isn’t a 
cheap shop as keeps enough o’ one pattern to 
fit a figure like hers. Her name was Mrs. De- 
Sussa, an’ t’ waay I coom to be acquainted wi’ 


PRIVATE LEAROYD’S STORY 203 

her was along of our Colonel’s Laady’s dog 
Rip. 

I’ve seen a vast o’ dogs, but Rip was t’ pret- 
tiest picter of a diver fox-tarrier ’at iver I set 
eyes on. He could do owt you like but speeak, 
an’ t’ Colonel’s Laady set more store by him 
than if he hed been a Christian. She hed 
bairns of her awn, but they was i’ England, 
and Rip seemed to get all t’ coodlin’ and pet- 
tin’ as belonged to a bairn by good right. 

But Rip were a bit on a rover, an’ hed a 
habit o’ breakin’ out o’ barricks like, and trot- 
tin’ round t’ plaice as if he were t’ Cantonment 
Magistrate coom round inspectin’. The Colonel 
leathers him once or twice, but Rip didn’t care 
an’ kept on gooin’ his rounds, wi’ his taail 
a-waggin’ as if he were flag-signallin’ to t’ 
world at large ’at he was “gettin’ on nicely, 
thank yo,’ and how’s yo’sen?” An’ then t* 
Colonel, as was noa sort of a hand wi’ a dog, 
tees him oop. A real clipper of a dog, an’ it’s 
noa wonder yon laady, Mrs. DeSussa, should 
tek a fancy tiv him. Theer’s one o’ t’ Ten 
Commandments says yo maun’t cuvvet your 
neebor’s ox or his jackass, but it doesn’t say 
nowt about his tarrier dogs, an’ happen thot’s 
t’ reason why Mrs. DeSussa cuvveted Rip, tho’ 
she went to church reg’lar along wi’ her hus- 


204 PRIVATE LEAROYD’S STORY 


band who was so mich darker ’at if he hedn’t 
such a good coaat tiv his back yo’ might ha’ 
called him a black man and nut tell a lee naw- 
ther. They said he addled his brass i’ jute, an’ 
he’d a rare lot on it. 

Well, you seen, when they teed Rip up, t’ 
poor awd lad didn’t enjoy very good ’elth. 
So’t Colonel’s Laady sends for me as ’ad a 
naame for bein’ knowledgeable about a dog, 
an’ axes what’s ailin’ wi’ him. 

'Why,” says I, "he’s getten t’ mopes, an’ 
what he wants is his libbaty an’ coompany like 
t’ rest on us ; wal happen a rat or two ’ud liven 
him oop. It’s low, mum,” says I, "is rats, but 
it’s t’ nature of a dog; an’ soa’s cuttin’ round 
an’ meetin’ another dog or two an’ passin’ t’ 
time o’ day, an’ hevvin’ a bit of a turn-up wi’ 
him like a Christian.” 

So she says her dog maunt niver fight an’ 
noa Christians iver fought. 

"Then what’s a soldier for?” says I; an’ I 
explains to her t’ contrairy qualities of a dog, 
’at, when yo’ coom to think on’t is one o’ t' 
curusest things as is. For they larn to behave 
theirsen like gentlemen born, fit for t’ fost o’ 
coompany — they tell me t’ Widdy herself is 
fond of a good dog and knaws one when she 
sees it as well as onny body; then on t’ other 


PRIVATE LEAROYD’S STORY 205 


hand a-tewin’ round after cats an’ gettin’ 
mixed oop i’ all manners o’ blackguardly 
street-rows, an’ killin’ rats, an’ fightin’ like 
divils. 

T’ Colonel’s Laady says: — ‘Well, Learoyd, 
I doan’t agree wi’ you, but you’re right in a 
way o’ speaking’, an’ I should like you’ to tek 
Rip out a- walkin’ wi’ you sometimes; but yo’ 
maun’t let him fight, nor chase cats, nor do 
nowt ’orrid an’ them was her very wods. 

Soa Rip an’ me gooes out a-walkin’ o’ even- 
in’s, he bein’ a dog as did credit tiv a man, an’ 
I catches a lot o’ rats an’ we hed a bit of a 
match on in an awd dry swimmin’-bath at back 
o’ t’ cantonments, an’ it was none so long afore 
he was as bright as a button again. He had a 
way o’ flyin’ at them big yaller pariah dogs as 
if he was a harrow ofifan a bow, an’ though 
his weight were nowt, he tuk ’em so suddint- 
like they rolled over like skittles in a halley, an’ 
when they coot he stretched after ’em as if he 
were rabbit-runnin’. Same with cats when he 
cud get t’ cat agaate o’ runnin’. 

One evenin’, him an’ me was trespassin’ 
ovver a compound wall after one of them mon- 
gooses ’at he’d started, an’ we was busy grub- 
bin’ round a prickle-bush, an’ when we looks 
up there was Mrs. DeSussa wi’ a parasel ovver 


2o6 private LEAROYD’S story 


her shoulder, a-watchin’ us. ‘^Oh my!” she 
sings out: ^%at’s that lovelee dog! Would 
he let me stroke him, Mister Soldier?” 

‘‘Ay, he would, mum,” sez I, “for he’s fond 
o’ laady’s coompany. Coome here, Rip, an’ 
speeak to this kind laady.” An’ Rip, seein’ ’at 
t’ mongoose hed getten clean awaay, cooms up 
like t’ gentleman he was, nivver a hauporth 
shy or okkord. 

“Oh, you beautiful — you prettee dog!” she 
says, clippin’ an’ chantin’ her speech in a way 
them sooart has o’ their awn; “I would like 
a dog like you. You are so verree lovelee — so 
awfullee prettee,” an’ all thot sort o’ talk, ’at a 
dog o’ sense mebbe thinks nowt on, tho’ he 
bides it by reason o’ his breedin’. 

An’ then I meks him joomp ower my swag- 
ger-cane, an’ shek hands, an’ beg, an’ lie dead, 
an’ a lot o’ them tricks as laadies teeaches dogs, 
though I doan’t haud with it mysen, for it’s 
makin’ a fool o’ a good dog to do such like. 

An’ at lung length it cooms out ’at she’d 
been thrawin’ sheep’s eyes, as t’ sayin’ is, at 
Rip for many a day. Yo’ see, her childer was 
grown up, and’ she’d nowt mich to do, an’ were 
alius fond of a dog. Soa she axes me if I’d tek 
somethin’ to dhrink. An’ we goes into t’ 
drawn-room wheer her ’usband was a-settin’. 


PRIVATE LEAROYD’S STORY 207 


They meks a gurt fuss ovver t’ dog an’ I has 
a bottle o’ aale, an’ he gave me a handful o’ 
cigars. 

Soa I coomed away, but t’ awd lass sings out 
— “Oh, Mister Soldier, please coom again and 
bring that prettee dog.” 

I didn’t let on to t’ Colonel’s Laady about 
Mrs. DeSussa, and Rip, he says nowt nawther; 
an’ I gooes again, an’ ivry time there was a 
good dhrink an’ a handful o’ good smooaks. 
An’ I telled t’ awd lass a heeap more about 
Rip than I’d ever heeared; how he tuk t’ fost 
prize at Lunnon dog-show and cost thotty- 
three pounds fower shillin’ from t’ man as bred 
him ; ’at his own brother was t’ propputty o’ t* 
Prince o’ Wailes, an’ ’at he had a pedigree as 
long as a Book’s. An’ she lapped it all oop an’ 
were niver tired o’ admirin’ him. But when t’ 
awd lass took to givin’ me money an’ I seed ’at 
she were gettin’ fair fond about t’ dog, I began 
to suspicion summat. Onny body may give a 
soldier t’ price of a pint in a friendly way an’ 
theer’s no ’arm done, but when it cooms to five 
rupees slipt into your hand, sly like, why, it’s 
what t’ ’lectioneerin’ fellows calls bribery an’ 
corruption. Specially when Mrs. DeSussa 
threwed hints how t’ cold weather would soon 
be ovver an’ she was goin’ to Munsooree Pahar 


2o8 private LEAROYD’S story 


an’ we was goin’ to Rawalpindi, an’ she would 
niver see Rip any more onless somebody she 
knowed on would be kind tiv her. 

Soa I tells Mulvaney an’ Ortheris all t’ taale 
thro’, beginnin’ to end. 

’Tis larceny that wicked ould laady 
manes,” says t’ Irishman, ’tis felony she is 
se juicin’ ye into, my frind Learoyd, but I’ll 
purtect your innocince. I’ll save ye from the 
wicked wiles av that wealthy ould woman, an’ 
I’ll go wid ye this evenin’ and spake to her the 
wurrds av truth an’ honesty. But Jock,” says 
he, waggin’ his heead, ‘‘ ’twas not like ye to 
kape all that good dhrink an’ thim fine cigars 
to yerself, while Orth’ris here an’ me have been 
prowlin’ round wid throats as dry as lime- 
kilns, and nothin’ to smoke but Canteen plug. 
’Twas a dhirty thrick to play on a comrade, for 
why should you, Learoyd, be balancin’ your- 
self on the butt av a satin chair, as if Terence 
Mulvaney was not the aquil av anybody who 
thrades in jute!” 

‘‘Let alone me,” sticks in Orth’ris, “but 
that’s like life. Them wot’s really fitted to dec- 
orate society get no show while a blunderin’ 
Yorkshireman like you” — 

“Nay,” says I, “it’s none o’ t’ blunderin’ 
Yorkshireman she wants; it’s Rip. He’s t’ 
gentleman this journey.” 


PRIVATE LEAROYD’S STORY 209 


Soa t' next day, Mulvaney an’ Rip an’ me 
goes to Mrs. DeSussa’s, an’ t’ Irishman bein’ 
a strainger she wor a bit shy at fost. But 
yo’ve heeard Mulvaney talk, an’ yo’ may be- 
lieve as he fairly bewitched t’ awd lass wal she 
let out ’at she wanted to tek Rip away wi’ her 
to Munsooree Pahar. Then Mulvaney changes 
his tune an’ axes her solemn-like if she’d 
thought o’ t’ consequences o’ gettin’ two poor 
but honest soldiers sent t’ Andamning Islands. 
Mrs. DeSussa began to cry, so Mulvaney 
turns round oppen t’ other tack and smooths 
her down, allowin’ ’at Rip ud be a vast better 
off in t’ Hills than down i’ Bengal, and ’twas 
a pity he shouldn’t go wheer he was so well 
beliked. And soa he went on, backin’ an’ fillin’ 
an’ workin’ up t’ awd lass wal she felt as if 
her life warn’t worth nowt if she didn’t hev t’ 
dog. 

Then all of a suddint he says: — ‘'But ye 
shall have him, marm, for I’ve a feelin’ heart, 
not like this could-blooded Yorkshireman; but 
’twill cost ye not a penny less than three hun- 
dher rupees.” 

“Don’t yo’ believe him, mum,” says I; “f 
Colonel’s Laady wouldn’t tek five hundred for 
him.” 

“Who said she would ?’^ says Mulvaney; 


210 PRIVATE LEAROYD’S STORY 


‘‘it’s not buyin’ him I mane, but for the sake o’ 
this kind, good laady, I’ll do what I never 
dreamt to do in my life. I’ll stale him !” 

“Don’t say steal,” says Mrs. DeSussa; “he 
shall have the happiest home. Dogs often get 
lost, you know, and then they stray, an’ he likes 
me and I like him as I niver liked a dog yet, 
an’ I must hev him. If I got him at t’ last min- 
ute I could carry him off to Munsooree Pahar 
and nobody would niver knaw.” 

Now an’ again, Mulvaney looked acrost at 
me, an’ though I could make nowt o’ what he 
was after, I concluded to take his leead. 

“Well, mum,” I says, “I never thowt to 
coom down to dog-stealin’, but if my comrade 
sees how it could be done to oblige a laady like 
yo’sen, I’m nut t’ man to hod back, tho’ it’s a 
bad business I’m thinkin’, an’ three hundred 
rupees is a poor set-off again t’ chance of 
them Damning Islands as Mulvaney talks on.” 

“I’ll mek it three fifty,” says Mrs. DeSussa ; 
“only let me hev t’ dog!” 

So we let her persuade us, an’ she teks Rip’s 
measure theer an’ then, an’ sent to Hamilton’s 
to order a silver collar again t’ time when he 
was to be her awn, which was to be t’ day she 
set off for Munsooree Pahar. 

“Sitha, Mulvaney,” says I, when we was 


PRIVATE LEAROYD’S STORY 21 1 

outside, ^'you’re niver goin’ to let her hev 
Rip !” 

‘‘An’ would ye disappoint a poor old wo- 
man?” says he; “she shall have a Rip.” 

“An’ wheer’s he to come through ?” says I. 

“Learoyd, my man,” he sings out, “you’re a 
pretty man av your inches an’ a good comrade, 
but your head is made av duff. Isn’t our 
friend Orth’ris a Taxidermist, an’ a rale artist 
wid his nimble white fingers? An’ what’s a 
Taxidermist but a man who can thrate shkins? 
Do ye mind the white dog that belongs to the 
Canteen Sargint, bad cess to him — he that’s 
lost half his time an’ snarlin’ the rest? He 
shall be lost for good now; an’ do ye mind that 
he’s the very - spit in shape an’ size av the 
Colonel’s, barrin’ that his tail is an inch too 
long, an’ he has none av the color that divarsi- 
fies the rale Rip, an’ his timper is that av his 
masther an’ worse. But fwhat is an inch on a 
dog’s tail? An’ fwhat to a professional like 
Orth’ris is a few ringstraked shpots av black, 
brown, an’ white? Nothin’ at all, at all.” 

Then we meets Orth’ris, an’ that little man 
bein’ sharp as a needle, seed his way through 
t’ business in a minute. An’ he went to work 
a-practicin’ ’air-dyes the very next day, be- 
ginnin’ on some white rabbits he had, an’ then 


212 PRIVATE LEAROYD’S STORY 


he drored all Rip’s markin’s on t’ back of a 
white Commissariat bullock, so as to get his 
’and in an’ be sure of his colors; shadin’ off 
brown into black as nateral as life. If Rip hed 
a fault it was too mich markin’, but it was 
straingely reg’lar an’ Orth’ris settled himself 
to make a fost-rate job on it when he got hand 
o’ t’ Canteen Sargint’s dog. Theer niver was 
sich a dog as thot for bad temper, an’ it did 
nut get no better when his tail hed to be fettled 
an inch an’ a half shorter. But they may talk 
o’ theer Royal Academies as they like. / 
niver seed a bit o’ animal paintin’ to beat t’ 
copy as Orth’ris made of Rip’s marks, wal t’ 
picter itself was snarlin’ all t’ time an’ tryin’ 
to get at Rip standin’ theer to be copied as 
good as goold. 

Orth’ris alius hed as mich conceit on himsen 
as would lift a balloon, an’ he wor so pleeased 
wi’ his sham Rip he wor for tekking him to 
Mrs. DeSussa before she went away. But 
Mulvaney an’ me stopped thot, knowin’ Orth’- 
ris’s work, though niver so diver, was nobbut 
skin-deep. 

An* at last Mrs. DeSussa fixed t’ day for 
startin’ to Munsooree Pahar. We was to tek 
Rip to t’ stayshun i’ a basket an’ hand him 
ovver just when they was ready to start, an’ 


PRIVATE LEAROYD’S STORY 213 

then she’d give us t’ brass — as was agreed 
upon. 

An' my wod! It were high time she were 
off, for them 'air-dyes upon t' cur's back took 
a vast of paintin' to keep t' reet culler, tho’ 
Orth'ris spent a matter o' seven rupees six an- 
nas i' t' best drooggist shops i' Calcutta. 

An' t' Canteen Sargint was lookin' for 'is 
dog every wheer ; an' wi' bein' tied up, t’beast's 
timper got waur nor ever. 

It wor i' t' evenin' when t' train started thro' 
Howrah, an' we 'elped Mrs. DeSussa wi' about 
sixty boxes, an' then we gave her t' basket. 
Orth'ris, for pride av his work, axed us to let 
him coom along wi' us, an' he couldn't help 
liftin' t' lid an' showin' t' cur as he lay coiled 
oop. 

''Oh !" says t' awd lass ; "the beautee ! How 
sweet he looks!" An' just then t' beauty 
snarled an' showed his teeth, so Mulvaney 
shuts down t' lid and says: "Ye’ll be careful, 
marm, whin ye tek him out. He’s disaccus' 
tomed to traveling by t' railway, an’ he’ll be 
sure to want his rale mistress an' his friend 
Learoyd, so ye’ll make allowance for his feel- 
ings at fost." 

She would do all thot an' more for the dear, 
good Rip, an' she would nut oppen t' basket till 


214 private LEAROYD’S story 


they were miles away, for fear anybody should 
recognize him, an’ we were real good and kind 
soldier-men, we were, an’ she bonds me a bun- 
dle o’ notes, an’ then cooms up a few of her 
relations and friends to say good-bye — not 
more than seventy-five there wasn’t — an’ we 
cuts away. 

What coom to t’ three hundred and fifty ru- 
pees ? Thot’s what I can scarcelins tell yo’, but 
we melted it — we melted it. It was share an’ 
share alike, for Mulvaney said: ‘'If Learoyd 
got hold of Mrs. DeSussa first, sure, ’twas I 
that remimbered the Sargint’s dog just in the 
nick av time, an’ Orth’ris was the artist av 
janius that made a work av art out av that 
ugly piece av ill-nature. Yet, by way av a 
thank-offerin’ that I was not led into a felony 
by that wicked ould woman. I’ll send a thrifle 
to Father Victor for the poor people he’s al- 
ways beggin’ for.” 

But me an Orth’ris, he bein’ Cockney, an’ I 
bein’ pretty far north, did nut see it i’ t’ saame 
way. We’d getten t’ brass, an’ we meaned to 
keep it. An’ soa we did — for a short time. 

Noa, noa, we niver heard a wod more o’ t’ 
awd lass. Our rig’mint went to Pindi, an’ t’ 
Canteen Sargint he got himself another tyke 
insteead o’ t’ one ’at got lost so reg’lar, an’ was 
lost for good at last. 


THE SOLID MULDOON 



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THE SOLID MULDOON 


Did ye see John Malone, wid his shinin’, brand-new 
hat? 

Did ye see how he walked like a grand aristocrat? 
There was flags an’ banners wavin’ high, an’ dhress 
and shtyle were shown. 

But the best av all the company was Misther John Ma- 
lone. 

John Malone. 

T^HERE had been a royal dog-fight in the 
ravine at the back of the rifle-butts, be- 
tween Learoyd’s Jock and Ortheris’s Blue Rot 
— ^both mongrel Rampur hounds, chiefly ribs 
and teeth. It lasted for twenty happy, howling 
minutes, and then Blue Rot collapsed and Or- 
theris paid Learoyd three rupees, and we were 
all very thirsty. A dog-fight is a most heating 
entertainment, quite apart from the shouting, 
because Rampurs fight over a couple of acres 
of ground. Later, when the sound of belt- 
badges clicking against the necks of beer-bot- 
tles had died away, conversation drifted from 
dog to man-fights of all kinds. Humans re- 
semble red-deer in some respects. Any talk of 
fighting seems to wake up a sort of imp in their 
217 


2i8 


THE SOLID MULDOON 


breasts, and they bell one to the other, exactly 
like challenging bucks. This is noticeable even 
in men who consider themselves superior to 
Privates of the Line: it shows the Refining 
Influence of Civilization and the March of 
Progress. 

Tale provoked tale, and each tale more beer. 
Even dreamy Learoyd’s eyes began to 
brighten, and he unburdened himself of a long 
history in which a trip to Malham Cove, a girl 
at Pateley Brigg, a ganger, himself and a pair 
of clogs were mixed in drawling tangle. 

“An’ so Ah coot’s yead oppen from t’ chin 
to t’ hair, an’ he was abed for t’ matter o’ a 
month,” concluded Learoyd, pensively. 

Mulvaney came out of a revery — he was ly- 
ing down — and flourished his heels in the air. 
“You’re a man, Learoyd,” said he, critically, 
“but you’ve only fought wid men, an’ that’s 
an ivry-day expayrience; but I’ve stud up to a 
ghost, an’ that was not an ivry-day expayri- 
ence.” 

“No?” said Ortheris, throwing a cork at 
him. “You get up an’ address the ’ouse — you 
an’ yer expayriences. Is it a bigger one nor 
usual ?” 

“ ’Twas the livin’ trut’ !” answered Mul- 
vaney, stretching out a huge arm and catching 


THE SOLID MULDOON 


219 


Ortheris by the collar. '‘Now where are ye, 
me son? Will ye take the wurrud av the Lorrd 
out av my mouth another time?’' He shook 
him to emphasize the question. 

“No, somethin’ else, though,” said Ortheris, 
making a dash at Mulvaney’s pipe, capturing it 
and holding it at arm’s length; “I’ll chuck it 
acrost the ditch if you don’t let me go !” 

“You maraudin’ hathen! ’Tis the only cutty 
I iver loved. Handle her tinder or I’ll chuck 
you acrost the nullah. If that poipe was bruk 
— Ah ! Give her back to me, sorr !” 

Ortheris had passed the treasure to my 
hand. It was an absolutely perfect clay, as 
shiny as the black ball at Pool. I took it rever- 
ently, but I was firm. 

“Will you tell us about the ghost-fight if I 
do?” I said. 

“Is ut the shtory that’s troublin’ you? Av 
course I will. I mint to all along. I was only 
gettin’ at ut my own way, as Popp Doggie said 
whin they found him thrying to ram a cart- 
ridge down the muzzle. Orth’ris, fall away!” 

He released the little Londoner, took back 
his pipe, filled it, and his eyes twinkled. He 
has the most eloquent eyes of any one that I 
know. 

“Did I iver tell you,” he began, “that I was 
wanst the divil of a man ?” 


220 


THE SOLID MULDOON 


*'You did,’’ said Learoyd, with a childish 
gravity that made Ortheris yell with laughter, 
for Mulvaney was always impressing upon us 
his great merits in the old days. 

‘‘Did I iver tell you,” Mulvaney continued, 
calmly, “that I was wanst more av a divil than 
I am now?” 

“Mer — ria! You don’t mean it?” said Or- 
theris. 

“Whin I was Corp’ril — I was rejuced af- 
therward — ^but, as I say, whin I was Corp’ril, 
I was a divil of a man.” 

He was silent for nearly a minute, while his 
mind rummaged among old memories and his 
eye glowed. He bit upon the pipe-stem and 
charged into his tale. 

“Eyah! They was great times. I’m ould 
now ; me hide’s wore off in patches ; sinthrygo 
has disconceited me, an’ I’m a married man tu. 
But I’ve had my day — I’ve had my day, an' 
nothin’ can take away the taste av that! Oh 
my time past, whin I put me fut through ivry 
livin’ wan av the Tin Commandmints between 
Revelly and Lights Out, blew the froth off a 
pewter, wiped me moustache wid the back av 
me hand, an’ slept on ut all as quiet as a little 
child! But ut’s over — ut’s over, an’ ’twill 
niver come back to me; not though I prayed 


THE SOLID MULDOON 


221 


for a week av Sundays. Was there any wan 
in the Ould Rig’mint to touch Corp’ril Terence 
Mulvaney whin that same was turned out for 
sedukshin? I niver met him. Ivry woman 
that was not a witch was worth the runnin* 
afther in those days, an’ ivry man was my 
dearest frind or — I had stripped to him an’ we 
knew which was the better av the tu. 

“Whin I was Corp’ril I wud not ha’ changed 
wid the Colonel — no, nor yet the Comman- 
dherin-Chief. I wud be a Sargint. There was 
nothin’ I wud not be ! Mother av Hivin, look 
at me! Fwhat am I 

“We was quartered in a big cantonmint — ’tis 
no manner av use namin’ names, for ut might 
give the barricks disrepitation — an’ I was the 
Imperor av the Earth to my own mind, an’ 
wan or tu women thought the same. Small 
blame to thim. Afther we had lain there a 
year, Bragin, the Color Sargint av E Com- 
p’ny, wint an’ took a wife that was lady’s 
maid to some big lady in the Station. She’s 
dead now is Annie Bragin — died in child-bed 
at Kirpa Tal, or ut may ha’ been Almorah — 
seven — nine years gone, an’ Bragin he married 
agin. But she was a pretty woman whin Bra- 
gin inthrojuced her to cantonmint society. She 
had eyes like the brown av the buttherfly’s 


222 


THE SOLID MULDOON 


wing whin the sun catches ut, an’ a waist no 
thicker than my arm, an’ a little sof’ button av 
a mouth I would ha’ gone through all Asia 
bristlin’ wid bay’nits to get the kiss av. An’ 
her hair was as long as the tail av the Colonel’s 
charger — forgive me mentionin’ that blun- 
derin’ baste in the same mouthful with Annie 
Bragin — ^but ’twas all shpun gold, an’ time 
was when ut was more than di’monds to me. 
There was niver pretty woman yet, an’ I’ve 
had thruck wid a few, cud open the door to 
Annie Bragin. 

“ ’Twas in the Cath’lic Chapel I saw her 
first, me oi rolling round as usual to see fwhat 
was to be seen. ‘You’re too good for Bragin, 
my love,’ thinks I to mesilf, ‘but that’s a mis- 
take I can put straight, or my name is not 
Terence Mulvaney.’ 

“Now take my wurrd for ut, you Orth’ris 
there an’ Learoyd, an’ kape out av the Married 
Quarters — as I did not. No good iver comes 
av ut, an’ there’s always the chance av your 
bein’ found wid your face in the dirt, a long 
picket in the back av your head, an’ your hands 
playing the fifes on the tread av another man’s 
doorstep. ’Twas so we found O’Hara, he that 
Rafferty killed six years gone, when he wint 
to his death wid his hair oiled, whistlin’ Larry 


THE SOLID MULDOON 


223 


O^Rourke betune his teeth. Kape out av the 
Married Quarters, I say, as I did not. ’Tis 
onwholesim, ’tis dangerous an’ ’tis ivrything 
else that’s bad, but — O my sowl, ’tis swate 
while ut lasts ! 

was always hangin’ about there whin I 
was off duty an’ Bragin wasn’t, but niver a 
sweet word beyon’ ordinar’ did I get from An- 
nie Bragin. ‘ ’Tis the pervarsity av the sect,’ 
sez I to mesilf, an’ gave my cap another cock 
on my head an’ straightened my back — ’twas 
the back av a Dhrum Major in those days — 
an’ wint off as tho’ I did not care, wid all the 
women in the Married Quarters laughin’. I 
was persuaded — most bhoys are I’m thinkin’ 
— that no women born uv woman cud stand 
against me av I hild up my little finger. I had 
reason for thinkin’ that way — till I met Annie 
Bragin. 

‘Time an’ agin whin I was blandandherin’ 
in the dusk a man wud go past me as quiet as a 
cat. That’s quare,’ thinks T, ‘for I am, or I 
should be, the only man in these parts. Now 
what divilment can Annie be up to?’ Thin I 
called myself a blayguard for thinkin’ such 
things; but I thought thim all the same. An’ 
that, mark you, is the way av a man. 

“Wan evenin’ I said : — ‘Mrs. Bragin, manin’ 


224 


THE SOLID MULDOON 


no disrespect to you, who is that CorpVil man’ 
— I had seen the stripes though I cud niver get 
sight av his face — *who is that Corp’ril man 
comes in always whin Fm goin’ away?’ 

‘‘ ‘Mother av God !’ sez she, turnin’ as white 
as my belt ; ‘have you seen him too ?’ 

“ ‘Seen him !’ sez I ; ‘av coorse I have. Did 
ye want me not to see him, for’ — we were 
standin’ talkin’ in the dhark, outside the ve- 
randa av Bragin’s quarters — ‘you’d betther tell 
me to shut me eyes. Onless I’m mistaken, he’s 
come now.’ 

“An’, sure enough, the Corp’ril man was 
walkin’ to us, hangin’ his head down as though 
he was ashamed av himsilf. 

“Good-night, Mrs. Bragin, sez I, very 
cool ; ‘ ’tis not for me to interfere wid your 
a-moors; but you might manage some things 
wid more dacincy. I’m off to canteen,’ I sez. 

“I turned on my heel an’ wint away, 
swearin’ I wud give that man a dhressin’ 
that wud shtop him messin’ about the Married 
Quarters for a month an’ a week. I had not 
tuk ten paces before Annie Bragin was hangin’ 
on to my arm, an’ I cud feel that she was 
shakin’ all over. 

“ ‘Stay wid me. Mister Mulvaney,’ sez she ; 
‘you’re flesh an’ blood, at the least — are ye 
not?’ 


THE SOLID MULDOON 225 


T'm all that/ sez I, an' my anger wint 
away in a flash. 'Will I want to be asked 
twice, Annie?’ 

"Wid that I slipped my arm round her 
waist, for, begad, I fancied she had surren- 
dered at discretion, an’ the honors av war were 
mine. 

“ 'Fwhat nonsinse is this?’ sez she, dhrawin’ 
hersilf up on the tips av her dear little toes. 
'Wid the mother’s milk not dhry on your im- 
pident mouth? Let go!’ she sez. 

"Did ye not say just now that I was flesh 
and blood?’ sez I. 'I have not changed since,’ 
I sez ; an’ I kep my arm where ut was. 

"‘Your arms to yourself!’ sez she, an’ her 
eyes sparkild. 

" ‘Sure, ’tis only human nature,’ sez I, an’ I 
kep’ my arm where ut was. 

" ‘Nature or no nature,’ sez she, ‘you take 
your arm away or I’ll tell Bragin, an’ he’ll 
alter the nature av your head. Fwhat d’you 
take me for ?’ she sez. 

" ‘A woman,’ sez I ; ‘the prettiest in bar- 
ricks.’ 

" ‘A wifef sez she ; ‘the straightest in can- 
tonmints !’ 

"Wid that I dropped my arm, fell back tu 
paces, an’ saluted, for I saw that she mint 
fwhat she said.” 


226 


THE SOLID MULDOON 


^Tlien you know something that some men 
would give a good deal to be certain of. How 
could you tell?” I demanded in the interests 
of Science. 

^ Watch the hand,” said Mulvaney; ‘^av she 
shut her hand tight, thumb down over the 
knuckle, take up your hat an’ go. You’ll only 
make a fool av yoursilf av you shtay. But av 
the hand lies opin on the lap, or av you see her 
thryin’ to shut ut, and she can’t, — go on ! She’s 
not past reasonin’ wid. 

‘Well, as I was sayin’, I fell back, saluted, 
an’ was goin’ away. 

“ ‘Shtay wid me,’ she sez. ‘Look ! He’s 
cornin’ again.’ 

“She pointed to the veranda, an’ by the 
Hoight av Impartinince, the Corp’ril man was 
cornin’ out av Bragin’s quarters. 

“ ‘He’s done that these five evenin’s past,’ 
sez Annie Bragin. ‘Oh, fwhat will I do !’ 

“ ‘He’ll not do ut again,’ sez I, for I was 
fightin’ mad. 

“Kape way from a man that has been a thri- 
fle crossed in love till the fever’s died down. 
He rages like a brute beast. 

“I wint up to the man in the veranda, 
manin” as sure as I sit, to knock the life out av 
him. He slipped into the open. ‘Fwhat are 


THE SOLID MULDOON 


227 


you doin’ philanderin’ about here, ye scum av 
the gutter ?’ sez I polite, to give him his warn- 
in’, for I wanted him ready. 

“He never lifted his head, but sez, all 
mournful an’ melancolius, as if he thought I 
wud be sorry for him: ‘I can’t find her,’ sez 
he. 

“ ‘My troth,’ sez I, ‘you’ve lived too long — 
you an’ your seekin’s an’ findin’s in a dacint 
married woman’s quarters! Hould up your 
head, ye frozen thief av Genesis, sez I, an’ 
you’ll find all you want an’ more !’ 

“But he niver hild up, an’ I let go from the 
shoulder to where the hair is short over the 
eyebrows. 

“ That’ll do your business, sez I, but it 
nearly did mine instid. I put my bodyweight 
behind the blow, but I hit nothing at all, an’ 
near put my shouldther out. The Corp’ril man 
was not there, an’ Annie Bragin, who had been 
watchin’ from the veranda, throws up her 
heels, an’ carries on like a cock whin his neck’s 
wrung by the dhrummer-bhoy. I wint back to 
her, for a livin’ woman, an’ a woman like An- 
nie Bragin, is more than a p’rade groun’ full 
av ghosts. I’d never seen a woman faint be- 
fore, an’ I stud like a shtuck calf, askin’ her 
whether she was dead, an’ prayin’ her for the 


228 


THE SOLID MULDOON 


love av me, an’ the love av her husband, an* 
the love av the Virgin, to opin her blessed eyes 
again, an’ callin’ mesilf all the names undher 
the canopy av Hivin for plaguin’ her wud my 
miserable a-moors whin I ought to ha’ stud 
betune her an’ this Corp’ril man that had lost 
the number av his mess. 

‘‘I misremember fwhat nonsinse I said, but 
I was not so far gone that I cud not hear a fut 
on the dirt outside. ’Twas Bragin cornin’ in, 
an’ by the same token Annie was cornin’ to. 
I jumped to the far end av the veranda an* 
looked as if butter wudn’t melt in my mouth. 
But Mrs. Quinn, the Quarter-Master’s wife 
that was, had tould Bragin about my hangin’ 
[round Annie. 

“ Tm not pleased wid you, Mulvaney,’ sez 
Bragin, unbucklin’ his sword, for he had been 
on duty. 

“ That’s bad bearin’, I sez, an’ I knew 
that the pickets were dhriven in. ‘What for, 
jSargint?’ sez 1. 

b “ ‘Come outside,’ sez he, ‘an’ I’ll show you 
why.’ 

“ ‘I’m willin’,’ I sez ; ‘but my stripes are 
none so ould that I can afford to lose thim. 
vTell me now, who do I go out wid?’ sez I. 
\^‘He was a quick man an’ just, an’ saw 


THE SOLID MULDOON 


229 


fwhat I wud be afther. ‘Wid Mrs. Bragin’s 
husband,’ sez he. He might ha’ known by me 
askin’ that favor that I had done him no 
wrong. 

‘‘We wint to the back av the arsenal, an’ I 
stripped to him, an’ for ten minutes ’twas all I 
cud do to prevent him killin’ himself against 
my fistes. He was mad as a dumb dog — just 
frothing wid rage; but he had no chanst wid 
me in reach, or learnin’, or anything else. 

“ ‘Will ye hear reason?’ sez I, whin his first 
wind was run out. 

“ ‘Not whoile I can see,’ sez he. Wid that I 
gave him both, one after the other smash 
through the low gyard that he’d been taught 
whin he was a boy, an’ the eyebrow shut down 
on the cheek-bone like the wing av a sick crow. 

“ ‘Will you hear reason now, ye brave man?’ 
sez I. 

“ ‘Not whoile I can speak,’ sez he, staggerin’ 
up blind as a stump. I was loath to do ut, but I 
wint round an’ swung into the jaw side-on an’ 
shifted ut a half pace to the lef’. 

“ ‘Will ye hear reason now ?’ sez I ; ‘ I can’t 
keep my timper much longer, an’ ’tis I will 
hurt you.’ 

“ ‘Not whoile I can stand,’ he mumbles out 
av one corner av his mouth. So I closed an’ 


230 


THE SOLID MULDOON 


threw him — ^blind, dumb, an’ sick, an’ jammed 
the jaw straight. 

‘‘ ‘You’re an ould fool, Mister Bragin,’ sez I. 

“ ‘You’re a young thief,’ sez he, ‘an’ you’ve 
bruk my heart, you an’ Annie betune you !’ 

“Thin he began cryin’ like a child as he lay. 
I was sorry as I had niver been before. ^Tis 
an awful thing to see a strong man cry. 

“ ‘I’ll swear on the Cross !’ sez I. 

“ ‘I care for none av your oaths,’ sez he. 

“ ‘Come back to your quarters,’ sez I, ‘an’ if 
you don’t believe the livin’, begad, you shall 
listen to the dead,’ I sez. 

“I hoisted him an’ tuk him back to his quar- 
ters. ‘Mrs. Bragin,’ sez I, ‘here’s a man that 
you can cure quicker than me.’ 

“ ‘You’ve shamed me before my wife,’ he 
whimpers. 

“ ‘Have I so ?’ sez I. ‘By the look on Mrs. 
Bragin’s face I think I’m for a dhressin’- 
down worse than I gave you.’ 

“An’ I was! Annie Bragin was woild wid 
indignation. There was not a name that a 
dacint woman cud use that was not given my 
way. I’ve had my Colonel walk roun’ me like 
a cooper roun’ a cask for fifteen minutes in 
Ord’ly Room, bekaze I wint into the Corner 
Shop an’ unstrapped lewnatic; but all that I 


THE SOLID MULDOON 


231 


iver tuk from his rasp of a tongue was ginger- 
pop to fwhat Annie tould me. An’ that, mark 
you, is the way av a woman. 

''Whin ut was done for want av breath, an’ 
Annie was bendin’ over her husband, I sez: 
' ’Tis all thrue, an’ I’m a blayguard an’ you’re 
an honest woman ; but will you tell him of wan 
service that I did you ?’ 

"As I finished speakin’ the Corp’ril man 
came up to the veranda, an’ Annie Bragin 
shquealed. The moon was up, an’ we cud see 
his face. 

" 'I can’t find her,’ sez the Corp’ril man, an’ 
wint out like the puff av a candle. 

" 'Saints stand betune us an’ evil !’ sez 
Bragin, crossin’ himself; 'that’s Flahy av the 
Tyrone.’ 

" 'Who was he ?’ I sez, 'for he has given me 
a dale av fightin’ this day.’ 

"Bragin tould us that Flahy was a Corp’ril 
who lost his wife av cholera in those quarters 
three years gone, an’ wint mad, an’ walked 
afther they buried him, huntin’ for her. 

" 'Well,’ sez I to Bragin, ‘he’s been hookin’ 
out av Purgathory to kape company wid Mrs. 
Bragin ivry evenin’ for the last fortnight. You 
may tell Mrs. Quinn, wid my love, for I know 
that she’s been talkin’ to you, an’ you’ve been 


« 


232 THE SOLID MULDOON 

listenin’, that she ought to ondherstand the dif- 
fer ’twixt a man an’ a ghost. She’s had three 
husbands,’ sez I, ‘an’ youWe got a wife too 
good for you. Instid av which you lave her to 
be boddered by ghosts an’ — an’ all manner av 
evil spirruts. I’ll niver go talkin’ in the way 
av politeness to a man’s wife again. Good- 
night to you both,’ sez I ; an’ wid that I wint 
away, havin’ fought wid woman, man and 
Divil all in the heart av an hour. By the same 
token I gave Father Victor wan rupee to say a 
mass for Flahy’s soul, me havin’ discommoded 
him by shticking my fist into his systim.” 

“Your ideas of politeness seem rather large, 
Mulvaney,” I said. 

“That’s as you look at ut,” said Mulvaney, 
calmly; “Annie Bragin niver cared for me. 
For all that, I did not want to leave anything 
behin’ me that Bragin could take hould av to 
be angry wid her about — whin an honust 
wurrd cud ha’ cleared all up. There’s nothing 
like opin-speakin’. Orth’ris, ye scutt, let me 
put me oi to that bottle, for my throat’s as dhry 
as whin I thought I wud get a kiss from Annie 
Bragin. An’ that’s fourteen years gone ! 
Eyah ! Cork’s own city an’ the blue sky above 
ut — an’ the times that was — the times that 
was !” 


WITH THE MAIN GUARD 





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WITH THE MAIN GUARD 


Der jungere Uhlanen 
Sit round mit open mouth 
While Breitmann tell dem stdories 
Of fightin’ in the South; 

Und gif dem moral lessons. 

How before der battle pops, 

Take a little prayer to Himmel 
Und a goot long drink of Schnapps. 

Hans Breitmann's Ballads. 

‘^Mary, Mother av Mercy, fwhat the divil 
possist us to take an’ kepe this melancolius 
counthry ? Answer me that, sorr.” 

It was Mulvaney who was speaking. The 
time was one o’clock of a stifling June night, 
and the place was the main gate of Fort Am- 
ara, most desolate and least desirable of all 
fortresses in India. What I was doing there at 
that hour is a question which only concerns 
M’Grath the Sergeant of the Guard, and the 
men on the gate. 

‘‘Slape,” said Mulvaney, ‘fls a shuparfluous 
necessity. This gyard’ll shtay lively till re- 
lieved.” He himself was stripped to the waist; 
Learoyd on the next bedstead was dripping 

235 


236 WITH THE MAIN GUARD 


from the skinful of water which Ortheris, clad 
only in white trousers, had just sluiced over 
his shoulders; and a fourth private was mut- 
tering uneasily as he dozed open-mouthed in 
the glare of the great guard-lantern. The heat 
under the bricked archway was terrifying. 

‘The worrst night that iver I remimber. 
Eyah! Is all Hell loose this tide?” said Mul- 
vaney. A puff of burning wind lashed through 
the wicket-gate like a wave of the sea, and Or- 
theris swore. 

“Are ye more heasy, Jock?” he said to Lea- 
royd. “Put yer ’ead between your legs. It’ll 
go orf in a minute.” 

“Ah don’t care. Ah would not care, but 
ma heart is plaayin’ tivvy-tivvy on ma ribs. 
Let me die ! Oh, leave me die !” groaned the 
huge Yorkshireman, who was feeling the heat 
acutely, being of fleshly build. 

The sleeper under the lantern roused for a 
moment and raised himself on his elbow. — 
“Die and be damned then!” he said. “ 7 ^m 
damned and I can’t die !” 

“Who’s that?” I whispered, for the voice 
was new to me. 

“Gentleman born,” said Mulvaney; “Corp*- 
ril wan year, Sargint nex’. Red-hot on his 
C’mission, but dhrinks like a fish. He’ll be 
gone before the cowld weather’s here. So !” 


WITH THE MAIN GUARD 237 


He slipped his boot, and with the naked toe 
just touched the trigger of his Martini. Or- 
theris misunderstood the movement, and the 
next instant the Irishman’s rifle was dashed 
aside, while Ortheris stood before him, his eyes 
blazing with reproof. 

‘^You!” said Ortheris. “My Gawd, you! If 
it was you, wot would we do ?” 

“Kape quiet, little man,” said Mulvaney, 
putting him aside, but very gently ; “ ’tis not 
me, nor will ut be me whoile Dina Shadd’s 
here. I was but showin’ something.” 

Learoyd, bowed on his bedstead, groaned, 
and the gentleman-ranker sighed in his sleep. 
Ortheris took Mulvaney’s tendered pouch, and 
we three smoked gravely for a space while the 
dust-devils danced on the glacis and scoured 
the red-hot plain. 

“Pop?” said Ortheris, wiping his forehead. 

“Don’t tantalize wid talkin’ av dhrink, or I’ll 
shtuff you into your own breech-block an’ — 
fire you off 1 ” grunted Mulvaney. 

Ortheris chuckled, and from a niche in the 
veranda produced six bottles of gingerale. 

“Where did ye get ut, ye Machiavel?” said 
Mulvaney. “ ’Tis no bazar pop.” 

“ ’Ow do Hi know wot the Orf ’cers drink ?” 
answered Ortheris. “Arst the mess-man.” 


238 WITH THE MAIN GUARD 


Ye’ll have a Disthrict Coort-martial settin’ 
on ye yet, me son,” said Mulvaney, *'but” — he 
opened a bottle — ‘T will not report ye this 
time. Fwhat’s in the mess-kid is mint for the 
belly, as they say, ’specially whin that mate is 
dhrink. Here’s luck ! A bloody war or a — no, 
we’ve got the sickly season. War, thin!” — he 
waved the innocent “pop” to the four quarters 
of Heaven. “Bloody war ! North, East, 
South, an’ West! Jock, ye quakin’ hayrick, 
come an’ dhrink.” 

But Learoyd, half mad with the fear of 
death presaged in the swelling veins of his 
neck, was pegging his Maker to strike him 
dead, and fighting for more air between his 
prayers. A second time Ortheris drenched the 
quivering body with water, and the giant re- 
vived. 

“An’ Ah divn’t see that a mon is i’ fettle for 
gooin’ on to live; an’ Ah divn’t see thot there 
is owt for t’ livin’ for. Hear now, lads ! Ah’m 
tired — tired. There’s nobbut watter i’ ma 
bones. Let me die !” 

The hollow of the arch gave back Learoyd’s 
broken whisper in a bass boom. Mulvaney 
looked at me hopelessly, but I remembered how 
the madness of despair had once fallen upon 
Ortheris, that weary, weary afternoon in the 


WITH THE MAIN GUARD 239 

banks of the Khemi River, and how it had been 
exorcised by the skilful magician Mulvaney. 

‘Talk, Terence!” I said, “ or we shall have 
Learoyd slinging loose, and he’ll be worse than 
Ortheris was. Talk! He’ll answer to your 
voice.” 

Almost before Ortheris had deftly thrown 
all the rifles of the Guard on Mulvaney’s bed- 
stead, the Irishman’s voice was uplifted as that 
of one in the middle of a story, and, turning to 
me, he said — 

‘Tn barricks or out of it, as you say, sorr, 
an Oirish rig’mint is the divil an’ more. ’Tis 
only fit for a young man wid eddicated fist- 
esses. Oh the crame av disruption is an Oirish 
rig’mint, an’ rippin’, tearin’, ragin’ scattherers 
in the field av war! My first rig’mint was 
Oirish — Faynians an’ rebils to the heart av 
their marrow was they, an’ so they fought for 
the Widdy betther than most, bein’ contrairy 
— Oirish. They was the Black Tyrone. 
You’ve heard av thim, sorr?” 

Heard of them! I knew the Black Tyrone 
for the choicest collection of unmitigated 
blackguards, dog-stealers, robbers of hen- 
roosts, assaulters of innocent citizens, and 
recklessly daring heroes in the Army List. 
Half Europe and half Asia has had cause to 


240 WITH THE MAIN GUARD 


know the Black Tyrone — good luck be with 
their tattered Colors as Glory has ever been ! 

^‘They was hot pickils an’ ginger! I cut a 
man’s head tu deep wid my belt in the days av 
my youth, an’ afther some circumstances which 
I will oblitherate, I came to the Quid Rig’mint, 
bearin’ the character av a man wid hands an’ 
feet. But, as I was goin’ to tell you, I fell 
acrost the Black Tyrone agin wan day whin 
we wanted thim powerful bad. Orth’ris, me 
son, fwhat was the name av that place where 
they sint wan comp’ny av us an’ wan av the 
Tyrone roun’ a hill an’ down again, all for to 
tache the Paythans something they’d niver 
learned before? Afther Ghunzni ’twas.” 

‘‘Don’t know whot the bloomin’ Paythans 
called it. We call it Silver’s Theayter. You 
know that, sure!” 

“Silver’s Theatre — so ’twas. A gut betune 
two hills, as black as a bucket, an’ as thin as a 
girl’s waist. There was over-many Paythans 
for our convaynience in the gut, an’ begad they 
called thimselves a Reserve — ^bein’ impident 
by natur! Our Scotchies an’ lashins av Gur- 
kys was poundin’ into some Paythan rig-mints, 
I think ’twas. Scotchies an’ Gurkys are twins 
bekaze they’re so onlike, an’ they get dhrunk 
together whin God plazes. As I was sayin’, 


WITH THE MAIN GUARD 241 


they sint wan company av the Ould an wan av 
the Tyrone to double up the hill an’ clane out 
the Paythan Reserve. Orf’cers was scarce in 
thim days, fwhat with dysintry an’ not takin’ 
care av thimselves, an’ we was sint out wid 
only wan orf ’cer for the comp’ny ; but he was a 
Man that had his feet beneath him, an’ all his 
teeth in their sockuts.” 

‘‘Who was he?” I asked. 

“Captain O’Neil — Old Crook — Cruikna- 
bulleen — him that I tould ye that tale av whin 
he was in Burma.^ Hah ! He was a Man. The 
Tyrone tuk a little orf ’cer bhoy, but divil a bit 
was he in command, as I’ll dimonstrate pres- 
intly. We an’ they came over the brow av the 
hill, wan on each side av the gut, an’ there was 
that ondacint Reserve waitin’ down below like 
rats in a pit. 

“ ‘Howld on, men,’ sez Crook, who took a 
mother’s care uv us always. ‘Rowl some rocks 
on thim by way of visitin’-kyards.’ We hadn’t 
rowled more than twinty bowlders, an’ the 
Paythans was beginnin’ to swear tremenjus, 
whin the little orf ’cer bhoy av the Tyrone 

' Now first of the foemen of Boh Da Thone 
Was Captain O’Neil of the Black Tyrone. 

The Ballad of Boh Da Thone. 


242 WITH THE MAIN GUARD 


squeaks out acrost the valley: — Twhat the 
devil an’ all are you doin’, shpoilin’ the fun for 
my men ? Do ye not see they’ll stand ?’ 

‘‘ Taith, that’s a rare pluckt wan!’ sez 
Crook. ‘Niver mind the rocks, men. Come 
along down an’ take tay wid thim !’ 

‘‘ ‘There’s damned little sugar in ut !’ sez my 
rear-rank man; but Crook heard. 

“‘Have ye not all got spoons?’ he sez, 
laughin’, an’ down we wint as fast as we cud. 
Learoyd bein’ sick at the Base, he, av coorse, 
was not there.” 

“Thot’s a lie!” said Learoyd, dragging his 
bedstead nearer. “Ah gotten thot theer, an’ 
you knaw it, Mulvaney.” He threw up his 
arms, and from the right arm-pit ran, diagon- 
ally through the fell of his chest, a thin white 
line terminating near the fourth left rib. 

“My mind’s goin’,” said Mulvaney, the un- 
abashed. “Ye were there. Fwhat I was 
thinkin’ of! ’Twas another man, av coorse. 
Well, you’ll remimber thin, Jock, how we an’ 
the Tyrone met wid a bang at the bottom an’ 
got jammed past all movin’ among the Pay- 
thans.” 

“Ow! It was a tight ’ole. I was squeezed 
till I thought I’d bloomin’ well bust,” said Or- 
theris, rubbing his stomach meditatively. 


WITH THE MAIN GUARD 243 


** ’Twas no place for a little man, but wan 
little man” — Mulvaney put his hand on Orthe- 
ris’s shoulder — ‘^saved the life av me. There 
we shtuck, for divil a bit did the Paythans 
flinch, an’ divil a bit dare we; our business 
bein’ to clear ’em out. An’ the most exthryor- 
dinar’ thing av all was that we an’ they just 
rushed into each other’s arrums, an’ there was 
no firing for a long time. Nothin’ but knife 
and bay’nit when we cud get our hands free: 
an’ that was not often. We was breast-on to 
thim, an’ the Tyrone was yelpin’ behind av us 
in a way I didn’t see the lean av the first. But 
I knew later, an’ so did the Paythans. 

‘Knee to knee !’ sings out Crook, wid a 
laugh whin the rush av our cornin’ into the gut 
shtopped, an’ he was huggin’ a hairy great 
Paythan, neither bein’ able to do anything to 
the other, tho’ both was wishful. 

“ ‘Breast to breast !’ he sez, as the Tyrone 
was pushin’ us forward closer and closer. 

“‘An’ hand over back!’ sez a Sarjint that 
was behin’. I saw a sword lick out past 
Crook’s ear, an’ the Paythan was tuk in the 
apple av his throat like a pig at Dromeen fair. 

“ ‘Thank ye. Brother Inner Guard,’ sez 
Crook, cool as a cucumber widout salt. ‘I 
wanted that room.’ An’ he wint forward by 


244 WITH THE MAIN GUARD 


the thickness av a man’s body, havin’ turned 
the Paythan under him. The man bit the heel 
off Crook’s boot in his death-bite. 

Tush, men !’ sez Crook. Tush, ye paper- 
backed beggars!’ he sez. ‘Am I to pull ye 
through?’ So we pushed, an’ we kicked, an’ 
we swung, an’ we swore, an’ the grass bein’ 
slippery, our heels wouldn’t bite, an’ God help 
the front-rank man that wint down that day !” 

“ ’Ave you ever bin in the Pit hentrance o’ 
the Vic., on a thick night?” interrupted Orth- 
eris. “It was worse nor that, for they was 
goin’ one way an’ we wouldn’t ’ave it. Least- 
ways, I ’adn’t much to say.” 

“Faith, me son, ye said ut, thin. I kep’ the 
little man betune me knees as long as I cud, 
but he was pokin’ roun’ wid his bay’nit, 
blindin’ an’ stifhn’ feroshus. The devil of a 
man is Oth’ris in a ruction — aren’t ye?” said 
Mulvaney. 

“Don’t make game!” said the Cockney. “I 
knowed I wasn’t no good then, but I guv ’em 
compot from the lef’ flank when we opened 
out. No!” he said, bringing down his hand 
with a thump on the bedstead, “a bay’nit ain’t 
no good to a little man — might as well ’ave 
a bloomin’ fishin’-rod! I ’ate a clawin’, 
maulin’ mess, but gimme a breech that’s 


WITH THE MAIN GUARD 245 


wore out a bit, an’ hamminition one year in 
store, to let the powder kiss the bullet, an’ put 
me somewheres where I ain’t trod on by ’ulkin 
swine like you, an’ ’selp me Gawd, I could bowl 
you over five times outer seven at height 
’undred. Would yer try, you lumberin’ Hir- 
ishman.” 

‘'No, ye wasp. I’ve seen ye do ut. I say 
there’s nothin’ better than the bay’nit, wid a 
long reach, a double twist av ye can, an’ a slow 
recover.” 

“Dom the bay’nit,” said Learoyd, who had 
been listening intently. “Look a-here!” He 
picked up a rifle an inch below the foresight 
with an underhand action, and used it exactly 
as a man would use a dagger. 

“Sitha,” said he, softly, “thot’s better than 
owt, for a mon can bash t’ faace wi’ thot, an’, 
if he divn’t, he can breeak t’ forearm o’ t’ 
gaard. ‘Tis not i’ t’ books, though. Gie me t* 
butt.” 

“Each does ut his own way, like makin’ 
love,” said Mulvaney, quietly ; “the butt or the 
bay’nit or the bullet accordin’ to the nature av 
the man. Well, as I was sayin’, we shtuck 
there breathin’ in each other’s faces and 
swearin’ powerful ; Orth’ris cursin’ the mother 
that bore him bekaze he was not three inches 
taller. 


246 WITH THE MAIN GUARD 


‘Trisintly he sez: — 'Duck ye lump, an’ I 
can get at a man over your shouldher !’ 

" 'You’ll blow me head off,’ I sez, throwin’ 
my arm clear; 'go through under my arm-pit, 
ye bloodthirsty little scutt,’ sez I, 'but don’t 
shtick me or I’ll wring your ears round.’ 

"Fwhat was ut ye gave the Pay than man 
forninst me, him that cut at me whin I cudn’t 
move hand or foot? Hot or cowld was ut?” 

"Cold,” said Ortheris, "up an’ under the 
ribjint. ’E come down flat. Best for you 
’e did.” 

"Thrue, my son! This jam thing that I’m 
talkin’ about lasted for five minutes good, an* 
thin we got our arms clear an’ wint in. I mis- 
remimber exactly what I did, but I didn’t want 
Dinah to be a widdy at the Depot. Thin, after 
some promishkuous hackin’ we shtuck again, 
an’ the Tyrone behin’ was callin’ us dogs an’ 
cowards an’ all manner av names; we barrin’ 
their way. 

" 'Fwhat ails the Tyrone?’ thinks I ; 'they’ve 
the makin’s av a most convanient fight here.’ 

"A man behind me sez beseechful an’ in a 
whisper: — 'Let me get at thim! For the Love 
av Mary give me room beside ye, ye tall man !” 

" 'An’ who are you that’s so anxious to be 
kilt?’ sez I, widout turnin’ my head, for the 


WITH THE MAIN GUARD 247 

long knives was dancin’ in front like the sun 
on Donegal Bay whin ut’s rough. 

‘‘ ‘We’ve seen our dead,’ he sez, squeezin’ 
into me; ‘our dead that was men two days 
gone! An’ me that was his cousin by blood 
could not bring Tim Coulan off! Let me get 
on,’ he sez, ‘let me get to thim or I’ll run ye 
through the back!’ 

“ ‘My troth,’ thinks I, ‘if the Tyrone have 
seen their dead, God help the Paythans this 
day!’ An’ thin I knew why the Oirish was 
ragin’ behind us as they was. 

“I gave room to the man, an’ he ran for- 
ward wid the Haymaker’s Lift on his bay’nit 
an’ swung a Paythan clear off his feet by the 
belly-band av the brute, an’ the iron bruk at 
the lockin’-ring. 

“ ‘Tim Coulan ’ll slape easy to-night,’ sez he, 
wid a grin ; an’ the ne:5^t minut his head was in 
two halves and he wint down grinnin’ by sec- 
tions. 

“The Tyrone was pushin’ an’ pushin’ in, an’ 
our men was swearin’ at thim, an’ Crook wag 
workin’ away in front av us all, his sword-arm 
swingin’ like a pump-handle an’ his revolver 
spittin’ like a cat. But the strange thing av ut 
was the quiet that lay upon. ’Twas like a fight 
in a drame — except for thim that was dead. 


24 S WITH THE MAIN GUARD 


‘Whin I gave room to the Oirishman I was 
expinded an’ forlorn in my inside. ’Tis a way 
I have, savin’ your presince, sorr, in action. 
‘Let me out bhoys,’ sez I, backin’ in among 
thim. ‘I’m goin’ to be onwell!’ Faith they 
gave me room at the wurrud, though they 
would not ha’ given room for all Hell wid the 
chill off. When I got clear, I was, savin’ your 
presince, sorr, outragis sick bekaze I had 
dhrunk heavy that day. 

“Well an’ far out av harm was a Sargint av 
the Tyrone sittin’ on the little orf’cer bhoy who 
had stopped Crook from rowlin’ the rocks. Oh, 
he was a beautiful bhoy, an’ the long black 
curses was slidin’ out av his innocint mouth 
like mornin’-jew from a rose! 

“ ‘Fwhat have you got there?’ sez I to the 
Sargint. 

“ ‘Wan av Her Majesty’s bantams wid his 
spurs up,’ sez he. ‘He’s goin’ to Coort-mar- 
tial me.’ 

“ ‘Let me go !’ sez the little orf’cer bhoy. 
‘Let me go and command my men!’ manin’ 
thereby the Black Tyrone which was beyond 
any command — ay, even av they had made the 
Divil a Field orf’cer. 

“ ‘His father howlds my mother’s cow-feed 
in Clonmel,’ sez the man that was sittin’ on 


WITH THE MAIN GUARD 249 


him. ‘Will I go back to his mother an^ tell 
her that Fve let him throw himself away? Lie 
still, ye little pinch av dynamite, an' Coort- 
martial me aftherward.’ 

“ ‘Good,’ sez I ; ‘ ’tis the likes av him makes 
the likes av the Commandher-in-Chief, but we 
must presarve thim. Fwhat d’you want to do, 
sorr?’ sez I, very politeful. 

“ ‘Kill the beggars — kill the beggars !’ he 
shqueaks ; his big blue eyes brimmin’ wid tears. 

“‘An’ how’ll ye do that?’ sez 1 . ‘You’ve 
shquibbed off your revolver like a child wid a 
cracker; you can make no play wid that fine 
large sword av yours; an’ your ban’s shakin’ 
like an asp on a leaf. Lie still an’ grow,’ sez I. 

“ ‘Get back to your comp’ny,’ sez he; ‘you’re 
insolint !’ 

“ ‘All in good time,’ sez I, ‘but I’ll have a 
dhrink first’ 

“Just thin Crook comes up, blue an’ white all 
over where he wasn’t red. 

“ ‘Wather !’ sez he ; I’m dead wid drouth ! 
Oh, but it’s a gran’ day !’ 

“He dhrank half a skinful, and the rest he 
tilts into his chest, an’ it fair hissed on the 
hairy hide av him. He sees the little orf’cer 
bhoy undher the Sargint. 

“ ‘Fwhat’s yonder ?’ sez he. 


250 WITH THE MAIN GUARD 


“ 'Mutiny, sorr,’ sez the Sargint, an’ the 
orf’cer bhoy begins pleadin’ pitiful to Crook 
to be let go : but divil a bit wud Crook budge. 

" 'Kape him there,’ he sez, ' ’tis no child’s 
work this day. By the same token,’ sez he, 
'I’ll confishcate that illigant nickel-plated scent- 
sprinkler av yours, for my own has been vom- 
itin’ dishgraceful !’ 

"The fork av his hand was black wid the 
backspit av the machine. So he tuk the orf’cer 
bhoy’s revolver. Ye may look, sorr, but, by 
my faith, there^s a dale more done in the held 
than iver gets into Field Ordhers! 

" 'Come on, Mulvaney,’ sez Crook ; 'is this 
a Coort-martial ?’ The two av us wint back 
together into the mess an’ the Paythans were 
still standin’ up. They was not too impart’nint 
though, for the Tyrone was callin’ wan to an- 
other to remimber Tim Coulan. 

"Crook stopped outside av the strife an’ 
looked anxious, his eyes rowlin’ roun’. 

" 'Fwhat is ut, sorr?’ sez I; 'can I get ye 
anything ?’ 

" 'Where’s a bugler ?’ sez he. 

"I wint into the crowd — our men was 
dhrawin’ breath behin’ the Tyrone who was 
fightin’ like sowls in tormint — an’ prisintly I 
came acrost little Frehan, our bugler bhoy. 


WITH THE MAIN GUARD 251 

pokin' roun’ among the best wid a rifle an’ 
bay’nit. 

Ts amusin’ yoursilf fwhat you’re paid for, 
ye limb?’ sez I, catchin’ him by the scruff. 
‘Come out av that an’ attind to your duty,’ I 
sez ; but the bhoy was not pleased. 

“ T’ve got wan,’ sez he, grinnin,’ big as you. 
Mulvaney, an’ fair half as ugly. Let me go get 
another.’ 

‘T was dishpleased at the personability av 
that remark, so I tucks him under my arm an* 
carries him to Crook who was watchin’ how 
the fight wint. Crook cuffs him till the bhoy 
cries, an’ thin sez nothin’ for a whoile. 

“They Paythans began to flicker onaisy, an’ 
our men roared. ‘Opin ordher! Double!’ sez 
Crook. ‘Blow, child, blow for the honor av 
the British Arrmy I’ 

“That bhoy blew like a typhoon, an’ the 
Tyrone an’ we opined out as the Paythans 
broke, an’ I saw that fwhat had gone before 
wud be kissin’ an’ huggin’ to fwhat was to 
come. We’d dhruv thim into a broad part av 
the gut whin they gave, an’ thin we opined out 
an’ fair danced down the valley, dhrivin’ thim 
before us. Oh, ’twas lovely, an’ stiddy, too! 
There was the Sargints on the flanks av what 
was left av us, kapin’ touch, an’ the fire was 


252 WITH THE MAIN GUARD 


runnin’ from flank to flank, an’ the Paythans 
was dhroppin’. We opined out wid the wid- 
enin’ av the valley, an’ whin the valley nar- 
rowed we closed again like the shticks on a 
lady’s fan, an’ at the far ind av the gut where 
they thried to stand, we fair blew them off 
their feet, for we had expinded very little am- 
munition by reason av the knife work.” 

‘‘Hi used thirty rounds goin’ down that val- 
ley,” said Ortheris, “an’ it was gentleman’s 
work. Might ’a’ done it in a white ’andker- 
chief an’ pink silk stockin’s, that part. Hi was 
on in that piece.” 

“You could ha’ heard the Tyrone yellin’ a 
mile away,” said Mulvaney, “an ’twas all their 
Sargints cud do to get thim off. They was 
mad — mad — mad! Crook sits down in the 
quiet that fell whin we had gone down the 
valley, an’ covers his face wid his hands. Pris- 
intly we all came back again accordin’ to our 
natures and disposishins, for they, mark you, 
show through the hide av a man in that hour. 

“ ‘Bhoys 1 bhoys I’ sez Crook to himself. T 
misdoubt we could ha’ engaged at long range 
an’ saved betther men than me.’ He looked at 
our dead an’ said no more. 

“ ‘Captain dear,’ sez a man av the Tyrone, 
cornin’ up wid his mouth bigger than iver his 


WITH THE MAIN GUARD 253 


mother kissed ut, spittin’ blood like a whale. 
‘Captain dear/ sez he, ‘if wan or two in the 
shtalls have been discommoded, the gallery 
have enjoyed the performinces av a Roshus.’ 

“Thin I knew that man for the Dublin dock- 
rat he was — wan av the bhoys that made the 
lessee av Silver’s Theatre grey before his time 
wid tearin’ out the bowils av the benches an’ 
t’rowin’ thim into the pit. So I passed the 
wurrud that I knew when I was in the Tyrone 
an’ we lay in Dublin. T don’t know who 
’twas,’ I whispers, ‘an’ I don’t care, but any- 
ways I’ll knock the face av you, Tim Kelly.’ 

“ ‘Eyah !’ sez the man, ‘was you there too ? 
We’ll call ut Silver’s Theatre.’ Half the Ty- 
rone, knowin’ the ould place, tuk ut up : so we 
called ut Silver’s Theatre. 

“The little orf’cer bhoy av the Tyrone was 
thremblin’ an’ cryin’. He had no heart for the 
Coort-martials that he talked so big upon. 
‘Ye’ll do well later,’ sez Crook, very quiet, ‘for 
not bein’ allowed to kill yourself for amuse- 
mint.’ 

“ ‘I’m a dishgraced man !’ sez the little orf’- 
cer bhoy. 

“ ‘Put me undher arrest, sorr, if you will, 
but, by my sowl. I’d do ut again sooner than 
face your mother wid you dead,’ sez the Sar- 


254 WITH THE MAIN GUARD 


gint that had sat on his head, standin’ to at- 
tention an’ salutin’. But the young wan only 
cried as tho’ his little heart was breakin’. 

‘Thin another man av the Tyrone came up, 
wid the fog av fightin’ on him.” 

“The what, Mulvaney?” 

“Fog av fightin’. You know, sorr, that, like 
makin’ love, ut takes each man diff’rint. Now 
I can’t help' bein’ powerful sick whin I’m in 
action. Orth’ris here, niver stops swearin’ 
from ind to ind, an’ the only time that Learoyd 
opins his mouth to sing is whin he is messin’ 
wid other people’s heads; for he’s a dhirty 
fighter is Jock. Recruities sometime cry, an’ 
sometime they don’t know fwhat they do, an’ 
sometime they are all for cuttin’ throats an’ 
such like dirtiness; but some men get heavy- 
dead-dhrunk on the fightin’. This man was. 
He was staggerin’, an’ his eyes were half shut, 
an’ we cud hear him dhraw breath twinty yards 
away. He sees the little orf’cer bhoy, an’ 
comes up, talkin’ thick an’ drowsy to himsilf. 
‘Blood the young whelp!’ he sez; ‘blood the 
young whelp;’ an’ wid that he threw up his 
arms, shpun roun’, an’ dropped at our feet, 
dead as a Paythan, an’ there was niver sign or 
scratch on him. They said ’twas his heart was 
rotten, but oh, ’twas a quare thing to see ! 


WITH THE MAIN GUARD 255 


*^Thin we wint to bury our dead, for we wud 
not lave thim to the Paythans, an’ in movin’ 
among the haythen we nearly lost that little 
orf’cer bhay. He was for givin’ wan divil 
wather and layin’ him aisy against a rock. 'Be 
careful, sorr,’ sez I; 'a wounded Paythan’s 
worse than a live wan.’ My troth, before the 
words was out of my mouth, the man on the 
ground fires at the orf’cer bhoy lanin’ over 
him, an’ I saw the helmit fly. I dropped the 
butt on the face av the man an’ tuk his pistol. 
The little orf’cer bhoy turned very white, for 
the hair av half his head was singed away. 

" T tould you so, sorr !’ sez I ; an’, afther 
that, whin he wanted to help a Paythan I stud 
wid the muzzle contagious to the ear. They 
dare not do anythin’ but curse. The Tyrone 
was growlin’ like dogs over a bone that had 
been taken away too soon, for they had seen 
their dead an’ they wanted to kill ivry sowl on 
the ground. Crook tould thim that he’d blow 
the hide off any man that misconducted him- 
self ; but, seeing that ut was the first time the 
Tyrone had iver seen their dead, I do not 
wondher they were on the sharp. ’Tis a 
shameful sight! Whin I first saw ut I wud 
niver ha’ given quarter to any man north of 
the Khaibar — no, nor woman either, for th^^ 


256 WITH THE MAIN GUARD 


women used to come out afther dhark — 
Auggrh ! 

“Well, evenshually we buried our dead an* 
tuk away our wounded, an’ come over the 
brow av the hills to see the Scotchies an’ the 
Gurkys taking tay with the Paythans in buck- 
etsfuls. We were a gang av dissolute ruffians, 
for the blood had caked the dust, an’ the 
sweat had cut the cake, an’ our bay’nits was 
hangin’ like butchers’ steels betune our legs, 
an’ most av us were marked one way or an- 
other. 

“A Staff Orf’cer man, clean as a new rifle, 
rides up an’ sez: ‘What damned scarecrows 
are you?’ 

“ ‘A comp’ny av Her Majesty’s Black Ty- 
rone an’ wan av the Quid Rig’mint,’ sez Crook 
very quiet, givin’ our visitors the flure as ’twas. 

“ ‘Oh !’ sez the Staff Orf’cer ; ‘did you dis- 
lodge that Reserve?’ 

“ ‘No !’ sez Crook, an’ the Tyrone laughed. 

“ ‘Thin fwhat the divil have ye done ?’ 

“ ‘Dishtroyed ut,’ sez Crook, an’ he took us 
on, but not before Toomey that was in the Ty- 
rone sez aloud, his voice somewhere in his 
stummick: ‘Fwhat in the name av misfortune 
does this parrit widout a tail mane by shtop- 
pin’ the road av his betthers ?’ 


WITH THE MAIN GUARD 257 


“The Staff Orf’cer wint blue, an’ Toomey 
makes him pink by changin’ to the voice av a 
minowderin’ woman an’ sayin’ : 'Come and kiss 
me, Major dear, for me husband’s at the wars 
an’ I’m all alone at the Depot.’ 

“The Staff Orf’cer wint away, an’ I cud see 
Crook’s shoulthers shakin’. 

“His Corp’ril checks Toomey. 'Lave me 
alone,’ sez Toomey, widout a wink. 'I was 
his batman before he was married an’ he knows 
fwhat I mane, av you don’t. There’s nothin’ 
like livin’ in the hoight av society.’ D’you re- 
mimber that, Orth’ris !” 

“Hi do. Toomey, ’e died in ’orspital, next 
week it was, ’cause I bought ’arf his kit ; an’ I 
remember after that” — 

“Guarrd, turn out.'” 

The Relief had come; it was four o’clock. 
“Fll catch a kyart for you, sorr,” said Mul- 
vaney, diving hastily into his accoutrements. 
“Come up to the top av the Fort an’ we’ll per^ 
shue our invistigations into M’Grath’s shta- 
ble.” The relieved Guard strolled round the 
main bastion on its way to the swimming-bath, 
and Learoyd grew almost talkative. Ortheris 
looked into the Fort ditch and across the plain. 
“Ho! it’s weary waitin’ for Ma-ary!” he 
hummed; “but I’d like to kill some more 


258 WITH THE MAIN GUARD 


bloomin’ Paythans before my time’s up. War! 
Bloody war! North, East, South, and West.” 

“Amen,” said Learoyd, slowly. 

“Fwhat’s here?” said Mulvaney, checking 
at a blurr of white by the foot of the old sen- 
try-box. He stooped and touched it. “It’s 
Norah — Norah M’Taggart! Why, Nonie, 
darlin,’ fwhat are ye doin’ out av your moth- 
er’s bed at this time?” 

The two-year-old child of Sergeant M’Tag- 
gart must have wandered for a breath of cool 
air to the very verge of the parapet of the Fort 
ditch. Her tiny night-shift was gathered into 
a wisp around her neck and she moaned in her 
sleep. “See there!” said Mulvaney; “poor 
lamb! Look at the heat-rash on the innocint 
skin av her. ’Tis hard — crool hard even for 
us. Fwhat must it be for these? Wake up, 
Nonie, your mother will be woild about you. 
Begad, the child might ha’ fallen into the 
ditch!” 

He picked her up in the growing light, and 
set her on his shoulder, and her fair curls 
touched the grizzled stubble of his temples. 
Ortheris and Learoyd followed snapping their 
fingers, while Norah smiled at them a sleepy 
smile. Then carolled Mulvaney, clear as a 
lark, dancing the baby on his arm — 


WITH THE MAIN GUARD 259 


“If any young man should marry you, 

Say nothin’ about the joke ; 

That iver ye slep’ in a sinthry-box, 

Wrapped up in a soldier’s cloak.” 

‘Though, on my sowl, Nonie,’’ he said, 
gravely, “there was not much cloak about you. 
Niver mind, you won’t dhress like this ten 
years to come. Kiss your friends an’ run along 
to your mother.” 

Nonie, set down close to the Married Quar- 
ters, nodded with the quiet obedience of the 
soldier’s child, but, ere she pattered off over the 
flagged path, held up her lips to be kissed by 
the Three Musketeers. Ortheris wiped his 
mouth with the back of his hand and swore 
sentimentally; Learoyd turned pink; and the 
two walked away together. The Yorkshire- 
man lifted up his voice and gave in thunder 
the chorus of The Sentry-box, while Ortheris 
piped at his side. 

“’Bin to a bloomin’ sing-song, you two?” 
said the Artilleryman, who was taking his car- 
tridge down to the Morning Gun. “You’re 
over merry for these dashed days.” 

‘T bid ye take care o* the brat,” said he, 

“For it comes of a noble race,” 

Learoyd bellowed. The voices died out in the 
swimming-bath. 


26 o with the main GUARD 


‘'Oh, Terence!” I said, dropping into Mul- 
vaney’s speech, when we were alone, “it's you 
that have the Tongue !” 

He looked at me wearily ; his eyes were sunk 
in his head, and his face was drawn and white. 
“Eyah!” said he; “I’ve blandandhered thim 
through the night somehow, but can thim that 
helps others help thimselves ? Answer me that, 
sorr I” 

And over the bastions of Fort-Amara broke 
the pitiless day. 


BLACK JACK 




BLACK JACK 

To the wake av Tim O’Hara 
Came company, 

All St. Patrick’s Alley 
Was there to see. 

Robert Buchanan. 

A S the Three Musketeers share their silver, 
tobacco, and liquor together, as they pro- 
tect each other in barracks or camp, and as ‘ 
they rejoice together over the joy of one, so do 
they divide their sorrows. When Ortheris’s 
irrepressible tongue has brought him into cells 
for a season, or Learoyd has run amok 
through his kit and accoutrements, or Mul- 
vaney has indulged in strong waters, and un- 
der their influence reproved his Commanding 
Officer, you can see the trouble in the faces of 
the untouched two. And the rest of the regi- 
ment know that comment or jest is unsafe. 
Generally the three avoid Orderly Room and 
the Corner Shop that follows, leaving both to 
the young bloods who have not sown their 
wild oats; but there are occasions — 

263 


264 


BLACK JACK 


For instance, Ortheris was sitting on the 
drawbridge of the main gate of Fort Amara, 
with his hands in his pockets and his pipe, 
bowl down, in his mouth. Learoyd was lying 
at full length on the turf of the glacis, kicking 
his heels in the air, and I came round the cor- 
ner and asked for Mulvaney. 

Ortheris spat into the ditch and shook his 
head. ''No good seein’ ’im now,’’ said Orth- 
eris; " ’e’s a bloomin’ camel. Listen.” 

I heard on the flags of the veranda opposite 
to the cells, which are close to the Guard- 
Room, a measured step that I could have iden- 
tified in the tramp of an army. There were 
twenty paces crescendo, a pause, and then 
twenty diminuendo. 

"That’s ’im,” said Ortheris ; "my Gawd, 
that’s ’im! All for a bloomin’ button you 
could see your face in an’ a bit o’ lip tfiat a 
bloomin’ Harkangel would ’a’ guv back.” 

Mulvaney was doing pack-drill — was com- 
pelled, that is to say, to walk up and down for 
certain hours in full marching order, with 
rifle, bayonet, ammunition, knapsack, and 
overcoat. And his offence was being dirty on 
parade! I nearly fell into the Fort Ditch 
with astonishment and wrath, for Mulvaney is 
the smartest man that ever mounted guard. 


BLACK JACK 


265 


and would as soon think of turning out un- 
cleanly as of dispensing with his trousers. 

‘‘Who was the Sergeant that checked him?” 
I asked. 

“Mullins, o’ course,” said Ortheris. “There 
ain’t no other man would whip ’im on the peg 
so. But Mullins ain’t a man. ’E’s a dirty 
little pigscraper, that’s wot ’e is.” 

“What did Mulvaney say? He’s not the 
make of man to take that quietly.” 

“Said! Bin better for ’im if ’e’d shut 
’is mouth. Lord, ’ow we laughed! ‘Sargint’ 
’e sez, ‘ye say I’m dirty. Well,’ sez ’e, ‘when 
your wife lets you blow your own nose for 
yourself, perhaps you’ll know wot dirt is. 
You’re himperfectly eddicated, Sargint,’ sez 
’e, an’ then we fell in. But after p’rade, ’e was 
up an’ Mullins was swearin’ ’imself black in 
the face at Ord’ly Room that Mulvaney ’ad 
called ’im a swine an’ Lord knows wot all. 
You know Mullins. ’E’ll ’ave ’is ’ead broke in 
one o’ these days. ’E’s too big a bloomin’ liar 
for ord’nary consumption. ‘Three hours’ can 
an’ kit,’ sez the Colonel ; ‘not for bein’ dirty on 
p’rade, but for ’avin’ said somthin’ to Mullins, 
tho’ I do not believe,’ sez ’e, ‘you said wot ’e 
said you said.’ An’ Mulvaney fell away sayin’ 
nothin’. You know ’e never speaks to the 


266 


BLACK JACK 


Colonel for fear o’ gettin’ ’imself fresh 
copped.” 

Mullins, a very young and very much mar- 
ried Sergeant, whose manners were partly the 
result of innate depravity and partly of im- 
perfectly digested Board School, came over 
the bridge, and most rudely asked Ortheris 
what he was doing. 

“Me?” said Ortheris. “Ow! Tm waiting 
for my C’mission. ’Seed it cornin’ along yit?” 

Mullins turned purple and passed on. There 
was the sound of a gentle chuckle from the 
glacis where Learoyd lay. 

“ ’E expects to get ’is C’mission some day,” 
explained Orth’ris; “Gawd ’elp the Mess that 
’ave to put their ’ands into the same kiddy as 
’im! Wot time d’you make it, sir? Power! 
Mulvaney’ll be out in ’arf an hour. You don’t 
want to buy a dorg, sir, do you? A pup you 
can trust — ’arf Rampore by the Colonel’s 
grey’ound.” 

“Ortheris,” I answered, sternly, for I knew 
what was in his mind, “do you mean to say 
that”— 

“I didn’t mean to arx money o’ you, 
any’ow,” said Ortheris; “I’d ’a’ sold you the 
dorg good an’ cheap, but — ^but — I know Mul- 
vaney’ll want somethin’ after we’ve walked ’im 


BLACK JACK 


267 


orf, an’ I ain’t got nothin’, nor ’e ’asn’t 
neither. , Fd sooner sell you the dorg, sir. 
’S trewth I would.” 

A shadow fell on the drawbridge, and Or- 
theris began to rise into the air, lifted by a 
huge hand upon his collar. 

“Onything but t’ braass,” said Learoyd, 
quietly, as he held the Londoner over the 
ditch. '^Onything but t’ braass, Orth’ris, ma 
son! Ah’ve got one rupee eight annas of ma 
own.” He showed two coins, and replaced Or- 
theris on the drawbridge rail. 

‘"Very good,” I said; ‘Vhere are you going 
to ?” 

“Coin’ to walk ’im orf wen ’e comes out — 
two miles or three or fower,” said Ortheris. 

The footsteps within ceased. I heard the dull 
thud of a knapsack falling on a bedstead, fol- 
lowed by the rattle of arms. Ten minutes 
later, Mulvaney, faultlessly dressed, his lips 
tight and his face as black as a thunderstorm, 
stalked into the sunshine on the drawbridge. 
Learovd and Ortheris sprang from my side 
and closed in upon him, both leaning toward as 
horses lean upon the pole. In an instant they 
had disappeared down the sunken road to the 
cantonments, and I was left alone. Mulvaney 


268 


BLACK JACK 


had not seen fit to recognize me ; so I knew that 
his trouble must be heavy upon him. 

I climbed one of the bastions and watched 
the figures of the Three Musketeers grow 
smaller and smaller across the plain. They 
were walking as fast as they could put foot 
to the ground, and their heads were bowed. 
They fetched a great compass round the pa- 
rade-ground, skirted the Cavalry lines, and 
vanished in the belt of trees that fringes the 
low land by the river. 

I followed slowly, and sighted theni — dusty, 
sweating, but still keeping up their long, swing- 
ing tramp — on the river bank. They crashed 
Through the Forest Reserve, and presently es- 
tablished themselves on the bow of one of the 
pontoons. I rode cautiously till I saw three 
puffs of white smoke rise and die out in the 
clear evening air, and knew that peace had 
come again. At the bridge-head they waved 
me forward with gestures of welcome. 

“Tie up your ’orse,” shouted Ortheris, “an’ 
come on, sir. We’re all goin’ ’ome in this ’ere 
bloomin’ boat.” 

From the bridge-head to the Forest Officer’s 
bungalo is but a step. The mess-man was 
there, and would see that a man held my horse. 
Did the Sahib require aught else — a peg, or 


BLACK JACK 


269 


beer ? Ritchie Sahib had left half a dozen bot- 
tles of the latter, but since the Sahib was a 
friend of Ritchie Sahib, and he, the mess-man, 
was a poor man — 

I gave my order quietly, and returned to the 
bridge. Mulvaney had taken off his boots, and 
was dabbling his toes in the water; Learoyd 
was lying on his back on the pontoon ; and Or- 
theris was pretending to row with a big bam- 
boo. 

*'Vm an ould fool,’' said Mulvaney, reflec- 
tively, “dhraggin’ you two out here bekaze I 
was undher the Black Dog — sulkin’ like a 
child. Me that was solderin’ when Mullins, an’ 
be damned to him, was shquealin’ on a coun- 
terpin for five shillin’ a week — an’ that not 
paid! Bhoys. I’ve took you five miles out av 
natural pervarsity. Phew!” 

‘What’s the odds so long as you’re ’appy ?” 
said Ortheris, applying himself afresh to the 
bamboo. “As well ’ere as anywhere else.” 

Learoyd held up a rupee and an eight-anna 
bit, and shook his head sorrowfully. “Five 
mile from t’Canteen, all along o’ Mulvaney’s 
blaasted pride.” 

“I know ut,” said Mulvaney, penitently. 
“Why will ye come wid me? An’ yet I wud 
be mortial sorry if ye did not — any time — 


270 


BLACK JACK 


though I am ould enough to know better. But 
I will do penance. I will take a dhrink av 
water.” 

Ortheris squeaked shrilly. The butler of the 
Forest bungalow was standing near the rail- 
ings with a basket, uncertain how to clamber 
down to the pontoon. “Might ’a' know’d 
youM ’a* got liquor out o’ bloomin’ desert, 
sir,” said Ortheris, gracefully, to me. Then 
to the mess-man : “Easy with them there bot- 
tles. They’re worth their weight in gold. 
Jock, ye long-armed beggar, get out o’ that an’ 
hike ’em down.” 

Learoyd had the basket on the pontoon in an 
instant, and the Three Musketeers gathered 
round it with dry lips. They drank my health 
in due and ancient form, and thereafter to- 
bacco tasted sweeter than ever. They absorbed 
all the beer, and disposed themselves in pictur- 
esque attitudes to admire the setting sun — no 
man speaking for a while. 

Mulvaney’s head dropped upon his chest, 
and we thought that he was asleep. 

“What on earth did you come so far for?” I 
whispered to Ortheris. 

“To walk ’im orf, o’ course. When ’e’s been 
checked we alius walks ’im orf. ’E ain’t fit to 
be spoke to those times — nor 'e ain’t fit to 


BLACK JACK 


271 


leave alone neither. So we takes ’im till ’e is.” 

Mulvaney raised his head, and stared 
straight into the sunset. “I had my rifle,” said 
he, dreamily, ‘‘an’ I had my bay’nit, an’ Mul- 
lins came round the corner, an’ he looked in 
my face an’ grinned dishpiteful. ^You can’t 
blow your own nose,’ sez he. Now, I cannot 
tell fwhat Mullins’s expayrience may ha’ been, 
but. Mother av God, he was nearer to his death 
that minut’ than I have iver been to mine — and 
that’s less than the thicknuss av a hair !” 

“Yes,” said Ortheris, calmly, “you’d look 
fine with all your buttons took orf, an’ the 
Band in front o’ you, walkin’ roun’ slow time. 
We’re both front-rank men, me an’ Jock, when 
the rig’ment’s in ’ollow square. Bloomin’ fine 
you’d look. ‘The Lord giveth an’ the Lord 
taketh awai, — Heasy with that there drop! — 
Blessed be the naime o’ the Lord,’ ” he gulped 
in a quaint and suggestive fashion. 

“Mullins! Wot’s Mullins?” said Learoyd, 
slowly. “Ah’d take a company o’ Mullinses — 
ma hand behind me. Sitha, Mulvaney, don’t 
be a fool.” 

*‘You were not checked for fwhat you did 
not do, an’ made a mock av after. ’Twas for 
less than that the Tyrone wud ha’ sent O’Hara 
to hell, instid av lettin’ him go by his own 


272 


BLACK JACK 


choosing whin Rafferty shot him/’ retorted 
Mulvaney. 

‘'And who stopped the Tyrone from doing 
it?” I asked. 

“That ould fool who’s sorry he didn’t stick 
the pig Mullins.” His head dropped again. 
When he raised it he shivered and put his hand 
on the shoulders of his two companions. 

“Ye’ve walked the Divil out av me, bhoys,” 
said he . 

Ortheris shot out the red-hot dottel of his 
pipe on the back of the hairy fist. “They say 
’Ell’s ’otter than that,” said he, as Mulvaney 
swore aloud. “You be warned so. Look yon- 
der!” — he pointed across the river to a ruined 
temple — “Me an’ you an’ ’fw” — he indicated 
me by a jerk of his head — “was there one day 
when Hi made a bloomin’ show of myself. 
You an’ ’im stopped me doin’ such — an’ Hi 
was on’y wishful for to desert. You are 
makin’ a bigger bloomin’ show o’ yourself 
now.” 

“Don’t mind him, Mulvaney,” I said; 
“Dinah Shadd, won’t let you hang yourself yet 
awhile, and you don’t intend to try it either. 
Let’s hear about the Tyrone and O’Hara. 
Rafferty shot him for fooling with his wife. 
What happened before that?” 


BLACK JACK 


273 


‘‘There’s no fool like an ould fool. You 
know you can do anythin’ wid me whin I’m 
talkin’. Did I say I wud like to cut Mullins’s 
liver out ? I deny the imputashin, for fear that 
Orth’ris here wud report me — Ah ! You wud 
tip me into the river, wud you? Sit quiet, 
little man. Anyways, Mullins is not worth the 
trouble av an extry p’rade, an’ I will trate him 
wid outrajis contimpt. The Tyrone and 
O’Hara! O’Hara and the Tyrone, begad! 
Ould days are hard to bring back again into 
the mouth, but they’re always inside the head.” 

Followed a long pause. 

“O’Hara was a Divil. Though I saved 
him, for the honor of the rig’mint, from his 
death that time, I say it now. He was a Divil 
— a long, bould, black-haired Divil.” 

“Which way?” asked Ortheris. 

“Women.” 

“Then I know another.”’ 

“Not more than in reason, if you mane me, 
ye warped walkin’-stick. I have been young, 
an’ for why should I not have tuk what I cud ? 
Did I iver, whin I was Corp’ril, use the rise av 
my rank — wan step an’ that taken away, 
more’s the sorrow an’ the fault av me! — to 
prosecute a nefarious inthrigue, as O’Hara 
did ? Did I, whin I was Cor’pril, lay my spite 


274 


BLACK JACK 


upon a man an’ make his life a dog’s life from 
day to day ? Did I lie, as O’Hara lied, till the 
young ones in the Tyrone turned white wid the 
fear av the Judgment av God killin’ thim all in 
a lump, as ut killed the woman at Devizes? I 
did not! I have sinned my sins and I have 
made my confesshin, an’ Father Victor knows 
the worst av me. O’Hara was tuk, before he 
cud spake, on Rafferty’s doorstep, an’ no man 
knows the worst av him. But this much I 
know ! 

“The Tyrone was recruited any fashion in 
the ould days. A draf’ from Connemara — a 
draf’ from Portsmouth — a draf’ from Kerry, 
an’ that was a blazin’ bad draf’ — here, there 
and ivery-where — ^but the large av thim was 
Oirish — Black Oirish. Now there are Oirish 
an’ Oirish. The good are good as the best, but 
the bad are wurrst than the wurrst. ’Tis this 
way. They clog together in pieces as fast as 
thieves, an’ no wan knows fwhat they will do 
till wan turns informer an’ the gang is bruk. 
But ut begins again, a day later, meetin’ in 
holes an’ corners an’ swearin’ bloody oaths an’ 
shtickin’ a man in the back an’ runnin’ away, 
an’ thin waitin’ for the blood-money on the re- 
ward papers — to see if ut’s worth enough. 
Those are the Black Oirish, an’ ’tis they that 


BLACK JACK 


275 


bring dishgrace upon the name av Oireland, 
an^ thim I wud kill — as I nearly killed wan 
wanst. 

“But to reshume. My room — 'twas before I 
was married — was wid twelve av the scum av 
the earth — the pickin’s av the gutter — mane 
men that ud neither laugh nor talk nor yet get 
dhrunk as a man shud. They thried some av 
their dog’s thricks on me, but I dhrew a line 
round my cot, an’ the man that thransgressed 
ut wint into hospital for three days good. 

“O’Hara had put his spite on the room — ^he 
was my Color Sargint — an’ nothin’ cud we do 
to plaze him. I was younger than I am now, 
an’ I tuk what I got in the way av dressing 
down and punishmint-dhrill wid my tongue in 
my cheek. But it was diff’rint wid the others, 
an’ why I cannot say, excipt that some men are 
borrun mane an’ go to dhirty murdher where a 
fist is more than enough. Afther a whoile, 
they changed their chune to me an’ was des- 
p’rit frien’ly — all twelve av thim cursin’ 
O’Hara in chorus. 

“ ‘Eyah,’ sez I, ‘O’Hara’s a divil an’ I’m not 
for denyin’ ut, but is he the only man in the 
wurruld? Let him go. He’ll get tired av 
findin’ our kit foul an’ our ’coutrements on- 
properly kep’/ 


2/6 


BLACK JACK 


“ *We will not let him go/ sez they. 

“ ‘Thin take him/ sez I, ‘an’ a dashed poor 
yield you will get for your throuble/ 

“ ‘Is he not misconductin’ himself wid Slim- 
my’s wife?’ sez another. 

“ ‘She’s common to the rig’mint,’ sez I. 
‘Fwhat has made ye this partic’lar on a sud- 
dint ?’ 

“ ‘Has he not put his spite on the roomful av 
us ? Can we do anythin’ that he will not check 
us for ?’ sez another. 

“ ‘That’s thrue/ sez I. 

‘Will ye not help us to do aught/ sez an- 
other — ‘a big bould man like you ?’ 

“ ‘I will break his head upon his shoulthers 
av he puts hand on me/ sez 1. ‘I will give him 
the lie av he says that I’m dhirty, an’ I wud not 
mind duckin’ him in the Artillery troughs if ut 
was not that I’m thryin’ for my shtripes.’ 

“ ‘Is that all ye will do ?’ sez another. ‘Have 
ye no more spunk than that, ye blood-dhrawn 
calf ?’ 

“ ‘Blood-dhrawn I may be,’ sez I, gettin’ 
back to my cot an’ makin’ my line round ut; 
‘but ye know that the man who comes acrost 
this mark will be more blood-dhrawn than me. 
No man gives me the name in my mouth,’ I sez. 
‘Ondersthand, I will have no part wid you in 


BLACK JACK 


277 

anythin’ ye do, nor will I raise my fist to my 
shuperior. Is any wan cornin’ on ?’ sez I. 

‘They made no move, tho’ I gave them full 
time, but stud growlin’ an’ snarlin’ together at 
wan ind av the room. I tuk up my cap and 
wint out to Canteen, thinkin’ no little av me- 
silf, and there I grew most ondacintly dhrunk 
in my legs. My head was all reasonable. 

“ ‘Houligan,’ I sez to a man in E Comp’ny 
that was by way av bein’ a frind av mine ; ‘Fm 
overtuk from the belt down. Do you give me 
the touch av your shoulder to presarve my for- 
mation an’ march me acrost the ground into 
the high grass. Fll sleep ut off there,’ sez I; 
an’ Houligan — he’s dead now, but good he was 
while he lasted — walked wid me, givin’ me the 
touch whin I wint wide, ontil we came to the 
high grass, an’ my faith, the sky an’ the earth 
was fair rowlin’ undher me. I made for where 
the grass was thickust, an’ there I slep’ off my 
liquor wid an easy conscience. I did not desire 
to come on books too frequent ; my characther 
havin’ been shpotless for the good half av a 
year. “Whin I roused, the dhrunk was dyin’ 
out in me, an’ I felt as though a she-cat had lit- 
tered in my mouth. I had not learned to hould 
my liquor wid comfort in thim days. Tis little 
betther I am now. 'I will get Houligan to 


278 


BLACK JACK 


pour a bucket over my head/ thinks I, an’ I 
wud ha’ risen, but I heard some wan say: 
'Mulvaney can take the blame av ut for the 
backslidin’ hound he is.’ 

'Oho!’ sez I, an’ my head rang like a 
guard-room gong : 'fwhat is the blame that this 
young man must take to oblige Tim Vulmea?’ 
For ’twas Tim Vulmea that shpoke. 

'T turned on my belly an’ crawled through 
the grass, a bit at a time, to where the spache 
came from. There was the twelve av my room 
sittin’ down in a little patch, the dhry grass 
wavin’ above their heads an’ the sin av black 
murdher in their hearts. I put the stuff aside 
to get a clear view. 

" ' F what’s that?’ sez wan man, jumpin’ up. 

" 'A dog,’ says Vulmea. 'You’re a nice 
hand to this job! As I said, Mulvaney will 
take the blame — av ut comes to a pinch.’ 

" 'Tis harrd to swear a man’s life away,’ sez 
a young wan. 

" 'Thank ye, for that,’ thinks I. 'Now 
fwhat the divil are you paragins conthrivin’ 
against me?’ 

" ' ’Tis as easy as dhrinkin’ your quart,’ sez 
Vulmea. 'At seven or thereon, O’Hara will 
come acrost to the Married Quarters, goin’ to 
call on Slimmy’s wife, the swine! Wan av 


BLACK JACK 


279 


us’ll pass the wurrd to the room an’ we shtart 
the divil an’ all av a shine — laughin’ an’ 
crackin’ on an’ t’rowin’ our boots about. Thin 
O’Hara will come to give us the ordher to be 
quiet, the more by token bekaze the room-lamp 
will be knocked over in the larkin’. He will 
take the straight road to the ind door where 
there’s the lamp in the veranda, an’ that’ll 
bring him clear against the light as he shtands. 
He will not be able to look into the dhark. 
Wan av us will loose off, an’ a close shot ut will 
be, an’ shame to the man that misses. T’will 
be Mulvaney’s rifle, she that is at the head 
av the rack — there’s no mistakin’ that long- 
shtocked, cross-eyed bitch even in the dhark.’ 

‘The thief misnamed my ould firin’-piece 
out av jealousy — I was pershuaded av that — 
an’ ut made me more angry than all. 

“But Vulmea goes on: ‘O’Hara will dhrop, 
an’ by the time the light’s lit again, there’ll be 
some six av us on the chest av Mulvaney 
cryin’ murdher an’ rape. Mulvaney’s cot is 
near the ind door, an’ the shmokin’ rifle will be 
lyin’ undher him whin we’ve knocked him over. 
We know, an’ all the rig’mint knows, that Mul- 
vaney has given O’Hare more lip than any man 
av us. Will there be any doubt at the Coort- 
martial? Wud twelve honust sodger-bhoys 


28 o 


BLACK JACK 


swear away the life av a dear, quiet, swate- 
timpered man such as is Mulvaney — wid his 
line av pipe-clay roun’ his cot, threatenin’ us 
wid murdher av we overshtepped ut, as we can 
truthful testify ?’ 

‘Mary, Mother av Mercy !’ thinks I to me- 
silf; ‘it is this to have an unruly mimber an’ 
fistes fit to use ! Oh the sneakin’ hounds !’ 

“The big dhrops ran down my face, for I 
was wake wid the liquor an’ had not the full av 
my wits about me. I laid shtill an’ heard thim 
workin’ themselves up to swear my life by 
tellin’ tales av ivry time I had put my mark on 
wan or another; an’ my faith, they was few 
that was not so dishtinguished. ’Twas all in 
the way av fair fight, though, for niver did I 
raise my hand excipt whin they had provoked 
me to ut. 

“ ‘ ’Tis all well,’ sez wan av thim, ‘but who’s 
to do this shootin’?’ 

“ ‘Fwhat matther?’ sez Vulmea. ‘ ’Tis Mul- 
vaney will do that — at the Coort-martial.’ 

“ ‘He will so,’ sez the man, ‘but whose hand 
is put to the trigger — in the room?* 

“ ‘Who’ll do ut?’ sez Vulmea, lookin’ round, 
but divil a man answered. They began to dish- 
pute till Kiss, that was always playin’ Shpoil 
Five, sez: ‘Thry the kyards!’ Wid that he 


BLACK JACK 


281 

opined his tunic an’ tuk out the greasy palam- 
mers, an’ they all fell in wid the notion. 

“ ‘Deal on!’ sez Vulmea, wid a big rattlin’ 
oath, ‘an the Black Curse av Shielygh come to 
the man that will not do his duty as the kyards 
say. Amin I’ 

‘Black Jack is the masther,’ sez Kiss, 
dealin’. Black Jack, sorr, I shud expay tiate to 
you, is the Ace av Shpades which from time 
immimorial has been intimately connected 
wid battle, murdher an’ suddin death. 

*Wanst Kiss dealt an’ there was no sign, but 
the men was whoite wid the workin’s av their 
sowls. Tzmce Kiss dealt, an’ there was a grey 
shine on their cheeks like the mess av an egg. 
Three times Kiss dealt an’ they was blue. 
‘Have ye not lost him?’ sez Vulmea, wipin’ the 
sweat on him; ‘Let’s ha’ done quick!’ ‘Quick 
ut is,’ sez Kiss t’rowin’ him the kyard; an’ ut 
fell face up on his knee — Black Jack! 

“Thin they all cackled wid laughin’. ‘Duty 
thrippence,’ sez wan av thim, ‘an’ damned cheap 
at that price !’ But I cud see they all dhrew a 
little away from Vulmea an’ lef’ him sittin’ 
playin’ wid the kyard. Vulmea sez no word 
for a whoile but licked his lips— cat-ways. 
Thin he threw up his head an’ made the men 
swear by ivry oath known to stand by him not 


282 


BLACK JACK 


alone in the room but at the Coort-martial that 
was to set on me! He tould off five av the big- 
gest to stretch me on my cot whin the shot was 
fired, an’ another man he tould off to put out 
the light, an’ yet another to load my rifle. He 
wud not do that himself ; an’ that was quare, 
for ’twas but a little thing considerin’. 

‘‘Thin they swore over again that they wud 
not bethray wan another, an’ crep’ out av the 
grass in diff’rint ways, two by two. A mercy 
ut was that they did not come to me. I was 
sick wid fear in the pit av my stummick — sick, 
sick, sick! Afther they was all gone, I wint 
back to Canteen an’ called for a quart to put a 
thought in me. Vulmea was there, dhrinkin’ 
heavy, an’ politeful to me beyond reason. 
‘Fwhat will I do — fwhat will I do?’ thinks I 
to mesilf whin Vulmea wint away. 

“Presintly the Arm’rer Sargint comes in 
stiffin’ an’ crackin’ on, not pleased wid any 
wan, bekaze the Martini Henri bein’ new to the 
rig’mint in those days we used to play the mis- 
chief wid her arrangemints. ’Twas a long 
time before I cud get out av the way av thryin’ 
to pull back the back-sight an’ turnin’ her over 
afther firin’ — as if she was a Snider. 

“ ‘Fwhat tailor-men do they give me to 
work wid?’ sez the Arm’rer Sargint. ‘Here’s 


BLACK JACK 


283 


Hogan, his nose flat as a table, laid by for a 
week, an’ivry Company sendin’ their arrums in 
knocked to small shivreens/ 

‘‘ Twhat’s wrong wod Hogan, Sargint?^ 
sez I. 

'Wrong!’ sez the Arm’rer Sargint; 'I 
showed him, as though I had been his mother, 
the way av shtrippin’ a Tini, an’ he shtrup her 
clane an’ easy. I tould him to put her to again 
an’ fire a blank into the blow-pit to show how 
the dirt hung on the groovin’. He did that, 
but he did not put in the pin av the fallin-block, 
an’ av coorse whin he fired he was strook by 
the block jumpin’ clear. Well for him ’twas 
but a blank — a full charge wud ha’ cut his oi 
out.’ 

"I looked a thrifle wiser than a boiled 
sheep’s head. 'How’s that, Sarjint?’ sez I. 

" 'This way, ye blundherin’ man, an’ don’t 
you be doin’ ut,’ sez he. Wid that he shows 
me a Waster action — the breech av her all cut 
away to show the inside — an’ so plazed he was 
to grumble that he dimonstrated fwhat Hogan 
had done twice over. 'An’ that comes av not 
knowin’ the wepping you’re purvided wid,’ sez 
he. 

" 'Thank ye, Sarjint,’ sez I; 'I will come to 
you again for furthur information.’ 


284 


BLACK JACK 


“ ‘Ye will not,’ sez he. ‘Kape your clanin’- 
rod away from the breech-pin or you will get 
into throuble.’ 

“I wint outside an* I could ha’ danced wid 
delight for the grandeur av ut. ‘They will load 
my rifle, good luck to thim, whoile I’m away,’ 
thinks I, and back I wint to the Canteen to give 
them their clear chanst. 

“The Canteen was fillin’ wid men at the ind 
av the day. I made feign to be far gone in 
dhrink, an’ wan by wan, all my roomful came 
in wid Vulmea. I wint away, walkin’ thick an’ 
heavy, but not so thick an’ heavy that any wan 
cud ha’ tuk me. Sure and thrue, there was a 
kyartridge gone from my pouch an’ lyin’ snug 
in my rifle. I was hot wid rage against thim 
all, an’ I worried the bullet out wid my teeth as 
fast as I cud, the room bein’ empty. Then I 
tuk my boot an’ the clanin’-rod and knocked 
out the pin av the fallin’-block. Oh, ’twas 
music when that pin rowled on the flure ! I put 
ut into my pouch an’ stuck a dab av dirt on the 
holes in the plate, puttin’ the fallin’-block back. 
‘That’ll do your business, Vulmea,’ sez I, lyin’ 
easy on the cot. ‘Come an’ sit on my chest the 
whole room av you, an’ I will take you to my 
bosom for the biggest divils that iver cheated 
halter.’ I would have no mercy on Vulmea. 
His oi or his life — ^little I cared I 


BLACK JACK 


285 

‘‘At dusk they came back, the twelve av 
thim, an’ they had all been dhrinkin’. I was 
shammin’ sleep on the cot. Wan man wint 
outside in the veranda. Whin he whishtled 
they began to rage roun’ the room an’ carry on 
tremenjus. But I niver want to hear men 
laugh as they did — skylarkin’ too! ’Twas like 
mad jackals. 

‘Shtop that blasted noise I’ sez O’Hara in 
the dark, an’ pop goes the room lamp. I cud 
hear O’Hara runnin’ up an’ the rattlin’ av my 
rifle in the rack an’ the men breathin’ heavy 
as they stud roun’ my cot. I cud see O’Hara 
in the light av the veranda lamp, an’ thin I 
heard the crack av my rifle. She cried loud, 
poor darlint, bein’ mishandled. Next minut’ 
five men were houldin’ me down. ‘Go easy,’ 
I sez; ‘fwhat’s ut all about?’ 

“Thin Vulmea, on the flure, raised a howl 
you cud hear from wan ind av cantonmints to 
the other. ‘I’m dead. I’m butchered. I’m blind I’ 
sez he. ‘Saints have mercy on my sinful sowl ! 
Sind for Father Constant! Oh sind for Fa- 
ther Constant an’ let me go clean!’ By that 
I knew he was not so dead as I cud ha’ wished. 

“O’Hara picks up the lamp in the veranda 
wid a hand as stiddy as a rest. ‘Fwhat 
damned dog’s thrick is this av yours?’ sez he. 


286 


BLACK JACK 


and turns the light on Tim Vulmea that was 
shwimmin’ in blood from top to toe. The 
fallin’-block had sprung free behin’ a full 
charge av powther — good care I tuk to bite 
down the brass afther takin’ out the bullet 
that there might be somethin’ to give ut full 
worth — an’ had cut Tim from the lip to the 
corner av the right eye, lavin’ the eyelid in 
tatthers, an’ so up an’ along by the forehead to 
the hair. ’Twas more av a rakin’ plough, if 
you will ondherstand, than a clean cut ; an’ 
niver did I see a man bleed as Vulmea did. 
The dhrink an’ the stew that he was in 
pumped the blood strong. The minute the men 
sittin’ on my chest heard O’Hara spakin’ they 
scatthered each wan to his cot, an’ cried out 
very politeful: Twhat is ut, Sargint?’ 

“ Twhat is ut!’ sez O’Hara, shakin’ Tim. 
‘Well an’ good do you know fwhat ut is, ye 
skulkin’ ditch-lurkin’ dogs! Get a doolie, an’ 
take this whimperin’ scutt away. There will 
be more heard av ut than any av you will care 
for.’ 

“Vulmea sat up rockin’ his head in his hand 
an’ moanin’ for Father Constant. 

“ ‘Be done !’ sez O’Hara, dhraggin’ him up 
by the hair. ‘You’re none so dead that you 
cannot go fifteen years for thryin’ to shoot me.’ 


BLACK JACK 287 

did not/ sez Vulmea; ‘I was shootin’ 

mesilf/ 

‘ThaCs quare/ sez O’Hara, ‘for the front 
av my jackut is black wid your powther/ He 
tuk up the rifle that was still warm an’ began 
to laugh. ‘I’ll make your life Hell to you,’ 
sez he, ‘for attempted murdher an’ kapin’ your 
rifle onproperly. You’ll be hanged first an’ 
thin put undher stoppages for four fifteen. 
The rifle’s done for,’ sez he. 

“ ‘Why, ’tis my rifle !’ sez I, cornin’ up to 
look; ‘Vulmea, ye divil, fwhat were you doin’ 
wid her — answer. me that?’ 

“ ‘Lave me alone,’ sez Vulmea; ‘I’m dyin’ !’ 

“ ‘I’ll wait till you’re betther,’ sez I, ‘an’ 
thin we two will talk ut out umbrageous.’ 

“O’Hara pitched Tim into the doolie, none 
too tinder, but all the bhoys kep’ by their cots, 
which was not the sign av innocint men. I 
was huntin’ ivrywhere for my fallin’-block, 
but not findin’ ut at all. I niver found ut. 

“ *Nozv fwhat will I do ?’ sez O’Hara, 
swinging the veranda light in his hand an’ 
lookin’ down the room. I had hate and con- 
timpt av O’Hara an’ I have now, dead tho’ he 
is, but, for all that, will I say he was a brave 
man. He is baskin’ in Purgathory this tide, 
but I wish he cud hear that, whin he stud 


288 


BLACK JACK 


lookin’ down the room an’ the bhoys shivered 
before the oi av him, I knew him for a brave 
man an’ I liked him so. 

‘‘ Twhat will I do?’ sez O’Hara agin, an’ 
we heard the voice av a woman low an’ sof’ in 
the veranda. ’Twas Slimmy’s wife, come 
over at the shot, sittin’ on wan av the benches 
an’ scarce able to walk. 

“ ‘O Denny ! — Denny, dear,’ sez she, ‘have 
they kilt you ?’ 

“O’Hara looked down the room again an’ 
showed his teeth to the gum. Then he spat on 
the flure. 

“ ‘You’re not worth ut,’ sez he. ‘Light that 
lamp, ye dogs,’ an’ wid that he turned away, 
an’ I saw him walkin’ off wid Slimmy’s wife ; 
she thryin’ to wipe off the powther-black on 
the front av his jacket wid her handkerchief. 
‘A brave man you are,’ thinks I — ‘a brave man 
an’ a bad woman.’ 

“No wan said a word for a time. They 
was all ashamed, past spache. 

“ ‘Fwhat d’you think he will do?’ sez wan 
av thim at last. ‘He knows we’re all in ut.’ 

“ ‘Are we so ?’ sez I from my cot. ‘The 
man that sez that to me will be hurt. I do not 
know,’ sez I, ‘fwhat onderhand divilmint you 
have conthrived, but by what I’ve seen I know 


BLACK JACK 


289 


that you cannot commit murdher wid another 
man^s rifle — such shakin’ cowards you are. 
Tm goin’ to slape/ I sez, ‘an’ you can blow my 
head off whoile I lay.’ I did not slape, though, 
for a long time. Can ye wonder? 

“Next morn the news was through all the 
rig’mint, an’ there was nothin’ that the men 
did not tell. O’Hara reports, fair an’ easy, 
that Vulmea was come to grief through tam- 
perin’ wid his rifle in barricks, all for to show 
the mechanism. An’ by my sowl, he’d the im- 
part’nince to say that he was on the sphot at 
the time an’ cud certify that ut was an acci- 
dint! You might ha’ knocked my roomful 
down wid a straw whin they heard that. 
’Twas lucky for thim that the bhoys were al- 
ways thryin’ to find out how the new rifle was 
made, an’ a lot av thim had come up for easin’ 
the pull by shtickin’ bits av grass an’ such in 
the part av the lock that showed near the 
thrigger. The first issues of the ’Tinis was 
not covered in, an’ I mesilf have eased the pull 
av mine time an’ agin. A light pull is ten 
points on the range to me. 

“ ‘I will not have this foolishness !’ sez the 
Colonel. T will twist the tail off Vulmea!’ 
sez he; but whin he saw him, all tied up an’ 
groanin’ in hospital, he changed his will. 


290 


BLACK JACK 


‘Make him an early convalescint/ sez he to the 
Doctor, an* Vulmea was made so for a 
warnin*. His big bloody bandages an’ face 
puckered up to wan side did more to kape the 
bhoys from messin’ wid the insides av their 
rifles than any punishmint. 

“O’Hara gave no reason for fwhat he’d 
said, an’ all my roomful were too glad to in- 
quire, tho’ he put his spite upon thim more 
wearin’ than before. Wan day, howiver, he 
tuk me apart very polite, for he cud be that at 
the choosin’. 

“ ‘You’re a good sodger, tho’ you’re a 
damned insolint man,’ sez he. 

“ ‘Fair words, Sargint,’ sez I, ‘or I may be 
insolint again.’ 

“ ‘ ’Tis not like you,’ sez he, ‘to lave your 
rifle in the rack widout the breech-pin, for 
widout the breech-pin she was whin Vulmea 
fired. I should ha’ found the break av ut in 
the eyes av the holes, else,’ he sez. 

“ ‘Sargint,’ sez I, ‘fwhat wud your life ha’ 
been worth av the breech-pin had been in 
place, for, on my sowl, my life wud be worth 
just as much to me av I tould you whether ut 
was or was not. Be thankful the bullet was 
not there,’ I sez. 

“ ‘That’s thrue,’ sez he, pulling his mous- 


BLACK JACK 


291 


tache; ‘but I do not believe that you, for all 
your lip, was in that business/ 

“ ‘Sargint,” sez I, ‘I cud hammer the life out 
av a man in ten minutes wid my fists if that 
man dishpleased me; for I am a good sodger, 
an' I will be threated as such, an' whoile my 
fistes are my own they're strong enough for 
all work I have to do. They do not fly back 
toward me !' sez I, lookin' him betune the eyes. 

“ ‘You're a good man,' sez he, lookin' me 
betune the eyes — an' oh he was a gran' built 
man to see ! — ‘you're a good man,' he sez, ‘an' 
I cud wish, for the pure frolic av ut, that I 
was not a Sargint, or that you were not a Pri- 
vit; and you will think me no coward whin I 
say this thing.' 

“ ‘I do not,' sez I. ‘I saw when Vulmea mis- 
handled the rifle. But, Sargint,' I sez, ‘take 
the wurrd from me now, spakin' as man to man 
wid the shtripes off, tho' 'tis little right I have 
to talk, me being fwhat I am by natur'. This 
time you tuk no harm, an' next time ye may 
not, but, in the ind, so sure as Slimmy's wife 
came into the veranda, so sure will ye take 
harm — an' bad harm. Have thought, Sar- 
gint,’ sez I. ‘Is it worth ut ?' 

“ ‘Ye're a bould man,' sez he, breathin’ 
harrd. ‘A very bould man. But I am a bould 


292 


BLACK JACK 


man tu. Do you go your way, Privit Mul- 
vaney, an I will go mine/ 

“We had no further spache thin or afther, 
but, wan by another, he drafted the twelve av 
my room out into other rooms an' got thim 
spread among the Companies, for they was not 
a good breed to live together, an' the Comp'ny 
orf’cers saw ut. They wud ha' shot me in the 
night av they had known fwhat I knew; but 
that they did not. 

“An,' in the ind, as I said, O’Hara met his 
death from Rafferty for foolin' wid his wife. 
He wint his own way too well — Eyah, too 
well ! Shtraight to that affair, widout turnin’ 
to the right or to the lef, he wint, an' may the 
Lord have mercy on his sowl. Amin !” 

“ 'Ear ! 'Ear !” said Ortheris, pointing the 
moral with a wave of his pipe. “An' this is 
'im '00 would be a bloomin’ Vulmea all for the 
sake of Mullins an' a bloomin' button! Mul- 
lins never went after a woman in his life. Mrs. 
Mullins, she saw 'im one day” — 

“Ortheris,” I said hastily, for the romances 
of Private Ortheris are all too daring for pub- 
lication, “look at the sun. It’s quarter past 
six!” 

“O Lord!' Three quarters of an hour for 
five an' a arf miles! We’ll 'ave to run like 
Jimmy O.” 


BLACK JACK 


293 


The Three Musketeers clambered on to the 
bridge, and departed hastily in the direction of 
the cantonment road. When I overtook them 
I offered them two strirrups and a tail, which 
they accepted enthusiastically. Ortheris held 
the tail, and in this manner we trotted steadily 
through the shadows by an unfrequented road. 

At the turn into the cantonments we 
heard carriage wheels. It was the Colonel’s 
barouche, and in it sat the Colonel’s wife and 
daughter. I caught a suppressed chuckle, and 
my beast sprang forward with a lighter step. 

The Three Musketeers had vanished into the 
night 



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1 






i 


THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’ 


We’re goin’ ’ome, we’re goin’ ’ome— 

Our ship is at the shore, 

An’ you mus’ pack your ’aversack, 

For we won’t come back no more. 

Ho, don’t you grieve for me. 

My lovely Mary Ann, 

For I’ll marry you yet on a fourp’ny bit, 

As a time-expired ma-a-an! 

Barrack Room Ballad. 

An awful thing has happened! My friend, 
Private Mulvaney, who went home in the 
Serapis, time-expired, not very long ago, has 
come back to India as a civilian! It was all 
Dinah Shadd’s fault. She could not stand the 
poky little lodgings, and she missed her servant 
Abdullah more than words could tell. The 
fact was that the Mulvaneys had been out here 
too long, and had lost touch of England. 

Mulvaney knew a contractor on one of the 
new Central India lines, and wrote to him for 
some sort of work. The contractor said that 
if Mulvaney could pay the passage he would 
give him command of a gang of coolies for old 
sakes’ sake. The pay was eighty-five rupees a 
297 


298 THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’ 


month, and Dinah Shadd said that if Terence 
did not accept she would make his life a 
‘‘basted purgathory.” Therefore the Mul- 
vaneys came out as “civilians,” which was a 
great and terrible fall; though Mulvaney tried 
to disguise it, by saying that he was “Ker’nel 
on the railway line, an' a consequinshal man.” 

He wrote me an invitation, on a tool-indent 
form, to visit him; and I came down to the 
funny little “construction” bungalow at the 
side of the line. Dinah Shadd had planted peas 
about and about, and nature had spread all 
manner of green stuff round the place. There 
was no change in Mulvaney except the change 
of clothing, which was deplorable, but could 
not be helped. He was standing upon his 
trolly, haranguing a gang-man, and his 
shoulders were as well drilled, and his big, 
thick chin was as clean-shaven as ever. 

“Fm a civilian now,” said Mulvaney. “Cud 
you tell that I was iver a martial man ? Don't 
answer, sorr, av you're strainin' betune a com- 
plimint an' a lie. There's no houldin' Dinah 
Shadd now she's got a house av her own. Go 
inside, an' dhrink tay out av chiny in the 
drrrrawin'-room, an' thin we’ll dhrink like 
Christians undher the tree here. Scutt, ye nay- 
gur-folk ! There’s a Sahib come to call on me. 


THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’ 


an’ that’s more than he’ll iver do for you onless 
you run ! Get out, an’ go on pilin’ up the earth, 
quick, till sundown.” 

When we three were comfortably settled 
under the big sisham in front of the bungalow, 
and the first rush of questions and answers 
about Privates Ortheris and Learoyd and old 
times and places had died away, Mulvaney 
said, reflectively — ^‘Glory be there’s no p’rade 
to-morrow, an’ no bun-headed Corp’ril-bhoy 
to give you his lip. An’ yit I don’t know. ’Tis 
harrd to be something ye niver were an’ niver 
meant to be, an’ all the ould days shut up 
along wid your papers. Eyah! I’m growin’ 
rusty, an’ ’tis the will av God that a man 
mustn’t serve his Quane for time an’ all.” 

He helped himself to a fresh peg, and sighed 
furiously. 

“Let your beard grow, Mulvaney,” said I, 
“and then you won’t be troubled with those 
notions. You’ll be a real civilian.” 

Dinah Shadd had told me in the drawing- 
room of her desire to coax Mulvaney into 
letting his beard grow. “ ’Twas so civilian- 
like, said poor Dinah, who hated her husband’s 
hankering for his old life. 

“Dinah Shadd, you’re a dishgrace to an 
honust, clane-scraped man!” said Mulvaney, 


300 THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’ 


without replying to me. ‘‘Grow a beard on 
your own chin, darlint, and lave my razors 
alone. They’re all that stand betune me and 
dis-ris-pect ability. Av I didn’t shave, I wud 
be tormented wid an outrajis thurrst; for 
there’s nothin’ so dhryin’ to the throat as a big 
billy-goat beard waggin’ undher the chin. Ye 
wudn’t have me dhrink always, Dinah Shadd? 
By the same token, you’re kapin’ me crool dhry 
now. Let me look at that whiskey.” 

The whiskey was lent and returned, but 
Dinah Shadd who had been just as eager as 
her husband in asking after old friends, rent 
me with — 

take shame for you, sorr, coming down 
here — though the Saints know you’re as wel- 
kim as the daylight whin you do come — an’ 
upsettin’ Terence’s head wid your nonsense 
about — about fwhat’s much better forgotten. 
He bein’ a civilian now, an’ you niver was 
aught else. Can you not let the Army rest? 
’Tis not good for Terence.” 

I took refuge by Mulvaney, for Dinah 
Shadd has a temper of her own. 

‘Tet be — let be,” said Mulvaney. ‘‘ ’Tis 
only wanst in a way I can talk about the ould 
days.” Then to me: — ‘‘Ye say Dhrumshticks is 
well, an’ his lady tu ? I niver knew how I liked 


THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’ 


301 


the grey garron till I was shut av him an’ 
Asia.” — ^^Dhrumshticks” was the nickname of 
the Colonel commanding Mulvaney’s old regi- 
ment, — “Will you be seein’ him again? You 
will. Thin tell him” — Mulvaney’s eyes began 
to twinkle — “tell him wid Privit” — 

Mister, Terence,” interrupted Dinah Shadd. 

“Now the Divil an’ all his angils an’ the 
Firmament av Hiven fly away wid the ‘Mister,’ 
an’ the sin av makin’ me swear be on your 
confession, Dinah Shadd! Privit, I tell ye. 
Wid Privit Mulvaney’s best obedience, that 
but for me the last time-expired wud be still 
pullin’ hair on their way to the sea.” 

He threw himself back in the chair, 
chuckled, and was silent. 

“Mrs Mulvaney,” I said, “ please take up the 
whiskey, and don’t let him have it until he has 
told the story.” 

Dinah Shadd dexterously whipped the bottle 
away, saying at the same time, “ ’Tis nothing 
to be proud av,” and thus captured by the 
enemy, Mulvaney spake : — 

“ ’Twas on Chuesday week. I was behad- 
errin’ round wid the gangs on the ’bankmint — 
I’ve taught the hoppers how to kake step an’ 
stop screechin’whin a head-gangman comes up 
to me, wid about two inches av shirt-tail hang- 


302 THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’ 


ing round his neck an’ a disthressful light in 
his oi. ‘Sahib,’ sez he, ‘there’s a reg’mint an* 
a half av soldiers up at the junction, knockin’ 
red cinders out av ivrything an’ ivrybody! 
They thried to hang me in my cloth,’ he sez, 
an’ there will be murder an’ ruin an’ rape in 
the place before night-fall ! They say they’re 
cornin’ down here to wake us up. What will 
we do wid our women-folks ?’ 

“ ‘Fetch my throlly !’ sez I ; ‘my heart’s sick 
in my ribs for a wink at anything wid the 
Quane’s uniform on ut. Fetch my throlly, an’ 
six av the jildiest men, and run me up in 
shtyle,’ ” 

“He tuk his best coat,” said Dinah Shadd, 
reproachfully. 

“ ’Twas to do honor to the Widdy. I cud 
ha’ done no less, Dinah Shadd. You and your 
digresshins interfere wid the coorse av the 
narrative. Have you iver considhered fwhat I 
wud look like wid me head shaved as well as 
my chin? You bear that in your mind, Dinah 
darlin*. 

“I was throllied up six miles, all to get a 
shquint at that draf’. I knew ’twas a spring 
draf goin’ home, for there’s no rig’mint here- 
abouts, more’s the pity.” 

“Praise the Virgin !” murmured Dinah 
Shadd. But Mulvaney did not hear. 


THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’ 303 


‘‘Whin I was about three-quarters av a mile 
off the rest-camp, powtherin’ along fit to 
burrst, I heard the noise av the men an’, on my 
sowl, sorr, I cud catch the voice av Peg Barney 
bellowin’ like a bison wid the belly-ache. You 
remimber Peg Barney that was in D Comp’ny 
— a red, hairy scraun, wid a scar on his jaw? 
Peg Barney that cleared out the Blue Lights’ 
Jubilee meeting wid the cook-room mop last 
year? 

“Thin I knew ut was a draf’ of the ould rig’- 
mint, an I was conshumed wid sorrow for the 
bhoy that was in charge. We was harrd 
scrapin’s at any time. Did I iver tell you how 
Horker Kelly went into clink nakid as Phoebus 
Appollonius, wid the shirts av the Corp’ril an’ 
file under his arrum? An’ he was a moild 
man! But I’m digreshin’. ’Tis a shame both to 
the rig’mints and the Arrmy sendin’ down little 
orf’cer bhoys wid a draf’ av strong men mad 
wid liquor an’ the chanst av gettin’ shut av 
India, an’ niver a punishment thafs fit to be 
given right down an' away from cantonmints 
to the dock! ’Tis this nonsince. Whin I am 
servin’ my time. I’m undher the Articles av 
War, an’ can be whipped on the peg for thim. 
But whin I’ve served my time. I’m a Reserve 
man, an’ the Articles av War haven’t any 


304 THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’ 


hould on me. An orf’cer can't do anythin' to a 
time-expired savin' confinin' him to barricks. 
'Tis a wise rig’lation bekaze a time-expired 
does not have any barricks ; bein' on the move 
all the time. 'Tis a Solomon av a rig’lation, is 
that. I wud like to be inthroduced to the man 
that made ut. 'Tis easier to get colts from a 
Kibbereen horse-fair into Galway than to 
take a bad draf over ten miles av country. 
Consiquintly that rig-la-tion — for fear that the 
men wud be hurt by the little orf’cer bhoy. No 
matther. The nearer my throlly came to the 
rest-camp, the woilder was the shine, an' the 
louder was the voice av Peg Barney. “ 'Tis 
good I am here,' thinks I to myself, Tor Peg 
alone is employmint for two or three.' He 
bein', I well knew, as copped as a dhrover. 

‘Taith, that rest-camp was a sight! The 
tent-ropes was all skew-nosed, an' the pegs 
looked as dhrunk as the men — fifty av thim — 
the scourin's, an' rinsin's, an' Divil's lavin's av 
the Quid Rig'mint. I tell you, sorr, they were 
dhrunker than any men you’ve ever seen in 
your mortial life. How does a draf’ get 
dhrunk? How does a frog get fat? They 
suk ut in through their shkins. 

‘There was Peg Barney sittin' on the groun' 
in his shirt — wan shoe off an' wan shoe on— 







'flignig esw ga'I 

8 ,lIoa blsai83>l iBnisho wiiB no 8 * w^ibnA ndoUA 3 TUY« 3 <>sst)M 


I ^ 



\ 


.V 


“ Peg Barney was singin* ut*’ 

Mezzogravure by John Andrew & Son after original by Reginald Bolles 



Copyri;;ht, 




I 



THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’ 305 


whackin’ a tent-peg over the head wid his boot, 
an’ singin’ fit to wake the dead. ’Twas no 
clane song that he sung, though. ’Twas the 
Divil’s Mass.” 

‘‘What’s that ?” I asked. 

“Whin a bad egg is shut av the Army, he 
sings the Divil’s Mass for a good riddance ; an’ 
that manes swearin’ at ivrything from the 
Commandher-in-Chief down to the Room- 
Corp’ril, such as you niver in your days heard. 
Some men can swear so as to make green turf 
crack! Have you iver heard the Curse in an 
Orange Lodge? The Divil’s Mass is ten times 
worse, an’ Peg Barney was singin’ ut, whackin’ 
the tent-peg on the head wid his boot for each 
man that he cursed. A powerful big voice had 
Peg Barney, an’ a hard swearer he was whin 
sober. I stood forninst him, an’ ’twas not me 
oi alone that cud tell Peg was dhrunk as a coot. 

“ ‘Good mornin’. Peg,’ I sez, whin he dhrew 
breath afther cursin’ the Adj’tint Gen’ral; ‘I’ve 
put on my best coat to see you. Peg Barney/ 
sez I. 

“ ‘Thin take ut off again,’ sez Peg Barney, 
latherin’ away wid the boot; ‘take ut off an' 
dance, ye lousy civilian!’ 

“Wid that he begins cursin’ ould Dhrum- 
shticks, being so full he clean disremimbers the 


3o6 the big drunk DRAF’ 


Brigade-Major an’ the Judge Advokit Gen’ral. 

‘Do you not know me, Peg ?’ sez I, though 
me blood was hot in me wid being called a 
civilian.” 

“An’ him a decent married man!” wailed 
Dinah Shadd. 

“ ‘I do not,’ sez Peg, ‘but dhrunk or sober 
ni tear the hide off your back wid a shovel 
whin I’ve stopped singin’,’ 

“‘Say you so, Peg Barney?’ sez I. ‘ ’Tis 
clear as mud you’ve forgotten me. I’ll assist 
your autobiography.’ Wid that I stretched 
Peg Barney, boot an’ all, an’ wint into the 
camp. An awful sight ut was ! 

“ ‘Where’s the orf’cer in charge av the de- 
tachment?’ sez I to Scrub Greene — the manest 
little worm that ever walked. 

“ ‘There’s no orf’cer, ye ould cook,’ sez 
Scrub; ‘we’re a bloomin’ Republic.’ 

“ ‘Are you that ?’ sez I ; ‘thin I’m O’Connell 
the Dictator, an’ by this you will larn to kape a 
civil tongue in your rag-box.’ 

“Wid that I stretched Scrub Greene an’ 
wint to the orf’cer tent. ’Twas a new little 
bhoy — not wan I’d iver seen before. He was 
sittin’ in his tent, purtendin’ not to ’ave ear av 
the racket. 

“I saluted — but for the life av me I mint to 


THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’ 


shake hands whin I went in. ’Twas the sword 
hangin’ on the tent-pole changed my will. 

‘Can’t I help, sorr?’ sez I; ‘ ’tis a sthrong 
man’s job they’ve given you, an’ you’ll be 
wantin’ help by sundown.’ He was a bhoy wid 
bowils, that child, an’ a rale gintleman. 

“ ‘Sit down,’ sez he. 

“ ‘Not before my orf’cer,’ sez I ; an’ I tould 
him fwhat my service was. 

“ ‘I’ve heard av you,’ sez he. ‘You tuk the 
town av Lungtungpen nakid.’ 

“ ‘Faith,’ thinks I, ‘that’s Honor an Glory;’ 
for t’was Lift’nint Brazenose did that job. 
‘I’m wid ye, sorr,’ sez I, ‘if I’m av use. They 
shud niver ha’ sent you down wid the draf’. 
Savin’ your presince, sorr,’ I sez ‘tis only 
Lift’nint Hackerston in the Quid Rig’mint can 
manage a Home draf’.’ 

“ ‘I’ve niver had charge of men like this be- 
fore,’ sez he, playin’ wid the pens on the table, 
‘an’ I see by the Rig’lations” — 

“ ‘Shut your oi to the Rig’lations, sorr,’ I 
sez, ‘till the throoper’s into blue wather. By 
the Rig’lations you’ve got to tuck thim up for 
the night or they’ll be runnin’ foul av my 
coolies an’ makin’ a shiverarium half through 
the country. Can you trust your noncoms, 
sorr ?’ 


3o8 the big drunk DRAF’ 


‘Yes,’ sez he. 

“ ‘Good,’ sez I ; ‘there’ll be th rouble before 
the night. Are you marchin’, sorr?’ 

“ ‘To the next station,’ sez he. 

“ ‘Better still,’ sez I ; ‘there’ll be big throu- 
ble.’ 

“ ‘Can’t be too hard on a Home draf’/ sez 
he; ‘the great thing is to get thim in-ship.’ 

“ ‘Faith you’ve larnt the half av your lesson, 
sorr,’ sez I, but av you shtick to the Rig’lations 
you’ll niver get thim in-ship at all, at all. Or 
there won’t be a rag av kit betune thim whin 
you do.’ 

“ ’Twas a dear little orf’cer bhoy, an’ by way 
av kapin’ his heart up, I tould him fwhat I saw 
wanst in a draf’ in Egypt.” 

“What was that, Mulvaney ?” said I. 

“Sivin an’ fifty men sittin’ on the bank av a 
canal, laughin’ at a poor little squidgereen av 
an orf’cer that they’d made wade into the slush 
an’ pitch the things out av the boats for their 
Lord High Mightinesses. That made me 
orf’cer bhoy wiold wid indignation. 

“ ‘Soft an’ aisy, sorr,’ sez I ; ‘you’ve niver 
had your draf’ in hand since you left canton- 
mints. Wait till the night, an’ your work will 
be ready to you. Wid your permission, sorr, I 
will investigate the camp, an’ talk to my ould 


THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’ 


309 


friends. Tis no manner av use thryin’ to 
shtopt the divilmint now. 

“Wid that I wint out into the camp an’ in- 
throjuced mysilf to ivry man sober enough to 
remimber me. I was some wan in the ould 
days, an’ the bhoys was glad to see me — all 
excipt Peg Barney wid a eye like a tomata five 
days in the bazar, an’ a nose to match. They 
come round me an’ shuk me, an’ I tould thim I 
was in privit employ wid an income av me 
own, an’ a drrrawin’-room fit to bate the 
Quane’s; an’ wid me lies an’ me shtories an’ 
nonsinse gin’rally, I kept ’em quiet in wan way 
an’ another, knockin’ roun’ the camp. ’Twas 
had even thin whin I was the Angil av Peace. 

‘T talked to me ould non-coms — they was 
sober — an’ betune me an’ thim we wore the 
draf’ over into their tents at the proper time. 
The little orf’cer bhoy he comes round, decint 
an’ civil-spoken as might be. 

‘^Rough quarters, men,’ sez he, ‘but you 
can’t look to be as comfortable as in barricks. 
We must make the best av things. I’ve shut 
my eyes to a dale av dog’s tricks to-day, and 
now there must be no more av ut.’ 

“ ‘No more we will. Come an’ have a 
dhrink, me son,’ sez Peg Barney, staggerin’ 
where he stud. Me little orf’cer bhoy kep’ his 
timper. 


310 THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’ 


‘You’re a sulky swine, you are,’ sez Peg 
Barney, an’ at that the men in the tent began to 
laugh. 

‘T tould you me orf’cer bhoy had bowils. 
He cut Peg Barney as near as might be on the 
oi that I’d squshed whin we first met. Peg 
wint spinnin’ acrost the tent. 

“ Teg him out, sorr,’ sez I, in a whishper. 

“ Teg him out !’ sez me orf’cer bhoy, up 
loud, just as if ’twas battalion-p’rade an’ he 
pickin’ his wurrds from the Sargint. 

“The non-coms tuk Peg Barney — a howlin’ 
handful he was — an’ in three minutes he was 
pegged out — chin down, tight-dhrawn — on his 
stummick, a tent-peg to each' arm an’ leg, 
swearin’ fit to turn a naygur white. 

“I tuk a peg an’ jammed ut into his ugly 
jaw. — ‘Bite on that, Peg Barney,’ I sez; ‘the 
night is settin’ frosty, an you’ll be wantin’ 
divarsion before the mornin’. But for the 
Rig’lations you’d be bitin’ on a bullet now at 
the thriangles. Peg Barney,’ sez I. 

“All the draf’ was out av their tents watchin’ 
Barney bein’ pegged. 

“ ‘ ’Tis agin the Rig’lations ! He strook 
him !’ screeches out Scrub Greene, who was al- 
ways a lawyer ; an’ some of the men tuk up the 
shoutin’. 

“ ‘Peg out that man !’ sez my orf’cer bhoy, 


THE BIG DRUNK DRAT’ 


311 

niver losin' his temper; an’ the non-coms wint 
in and pegged out Scrub Greene by the side av 
Peg Barney. 

*T cud see that the draf’ was cornin’ roun’. 
The men stud not knowin’ fwhat to do. 

“ ‘Get to your tents !’ sez me orf ’cer bhoy. 
‘Sargint, put a sintry over these two men.’ 

“The men wint back into the tents like jack- 
als, an’ the rest av the night there was no noise 
at all excipt the stip av the sintry over the two, 
an’ Scrub Greene blubberin’ like a child. 
’Twas a chilly night, an’ faith, ut sobered Peg 
Barney. 

“Just before Revelly, my orf ’cer bhoy comes 
out an’ sez : ‘Loose those men an’ send thim to 
their tents !’ Scrub Greene wint away widout 
a word, but Peg Barney, stiff wid the cowld, 
stud like a sheep, thryin’ to make his orf’cer 
undershtand he was sorry for playin’ the goat. 

“There was no tucker in the draf’ whin ut 
fell in for the march, an divil a wurrd about 
‘illegality’ cud I hear. 

“I wint to the ould Color Sargint and I 
sez : — ‘Let me die in glory,’ sez I. ‘I’ve seen a 
man this day !’ 

“ ‘A man he is,’ sez ould Hother ; ‘the draf ’s 
as sick as a herrin’. They’ll all go down to the 
sea like lambs. That bhoy has the bowils av a 
cantonmint av Gin’rals.’ 


312 THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’ 


‘‘ ‘Amin/ sez I/an good luck go wid him, 
wheriver he be, by land or by sea. Let me 
know how the draf’ gets clear.’ 

“An’ do you know how they did? That 
bhoy, so I was tould by letter from Bombay, 
bullydamned ’em down to the dock, till they 
cudn’t call their sowls their own. From the 
time they left me oi till they was ’tween decks, 
not wan av thim was more than dacintly 
dhrunk. An’, by the Holy Articles av War, 
whin they wint aboard they cheered him till 
they cudn’t spake, an’ that, mark you, has not 
come about wid a draf’ in the mim’ry av livin’ 
man ! You look to that little orf’cer bhoy. He 
has bowils. ’Tis not ivry child that wud chuck 
the Rig’lations to Flanders an’ stretch Peg 
Barney on a wink from a broken an’ dilapi- 
dated ould carkiss like mesilf. I’d be proud to 
serve” — 

“Terence, you’re a civilian,” said Dinah 
Shadd, warningly. 

. “So I am — so I am. Is ut likely I wud for- 
get ut ? But he was a gran’ bhoy all the same, 
an’ I’m only a mudtipper wid a hod on my 
shoulthers. The whiskey’s in the heel av your 
hand, sorr. Wid your good lave we’ll dhrink 
to the Ould Rig’mint — three fingers — ^tandin’ 
up!” 

And we drank. 


L’ENVOI 


And they were stronger hands than mine 
That digged the Ruby from the earth — 
More cunning brains that made it worth 
The large desire of a King; 

And bolder hearts that through the brine 
Went down the Perfect Pearl to bring. 

Lo, I have wrought in common clay 

Rude figures of a rough-hewn race ; 

For Pearls strew not the market-place 
In this my town of banishment, 

Where with the shifting dust I play 
And eat the bread of Discontent. 

Yet is there life in that I make, — • 

Oh, Thou who knowest, turn and see. 
As Thou hast power over me. 

So have I power over these. 

Because I wrought them for Thy sake. 

And breathe in them mine agonies. 

Small mirth was in the making. Now 
I lift the cloth that cloaks the clay. 

And, wearied, at Thy feet I lay 
My wares ere I go forth to sell. 

The long bazar will praise — ^but Thou — ^ 
Heart of my heart, have I done well? 

313 


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